A Criminal's Burial
by gecko818
Summary: Upon awakening in a strange castle with no memory of the last week, Arthur learned that not only had he been recovering from poison, but that Merlin was responsible for the betrayal. Unfortunately, the boy was reportedly killed by Arthur's own sword and left to rot. Little does he know, the story is a mere ruse to conquer Camelot. NOT a death!fic. Merlin!/Arthur!Whump.
1. Chapter 1

**A/n:** Hello everyone. Thank you for clicking this despite that atrocious summary that needs more help than I can provide. If you read my fluff, this is not that (and I apologize for not updating that yet. See my profile for a better explanation). Please do not read this if you wanted that. **This story will likely be rather gory** , and will likely depict torture scenes. I will try to indicate the worst of the scenes, but you have been warned.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Merlin, and I am certainly not profiting off this endeavor. All mistakes are my own.

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A Criminal's Burial

 **Chapter 1**

Throat parched, head throbbing, Arthur peeled himself from his sweat-drenched bed sheets and pulled at his clothing as he sat up, cursing whoever decided to leave him clothed during his fevered throes. As he moved to grab the pitcher of water on his nightstand, he realized his entire body was shrouded in a dull ache and found the mere act of juggling the jug well enough to fill its accompanying cup was far more arduous than it should have been. How long was he even out?

After he greedily drank a bit more than he should have, his empty stomach now making nauseous knots, Arthur called out for both Merlin and Gaius. Surely one of them would be able to explain this nonsense. With no immediate reply, the king took to self-inspection. Other than a few now-yellowing bruises across his body and a nicely healing gash on his left temple, he seemed physically fine. He couldn't quite figure out the deep ache he felt. Perhaps he had just been in bed far too long; after all, these bruises were _yellow._

As he looked around the room for any signs of others, Arthur froze. Wherever he was, it wasn't home. He wasn't in Camelot's citadel or any other immediately recognizable part of the kingdom. The sickly sweet scent of medicine mingled with stale sweat told him that wherever he was, he wasn't in any present danger, but the lack of any familiar face in the room set him on edge. Surely if he had gone somewhere, he would have left with _at least_ Merlin, if not some of the knights as well. Usually someone would sit with him, especially if they were in an unknown land.

Worry sunk into Arthur's stomach; something was definitely wrong. If any of his usual traveling companions were here, if they were safe, one of them would be here, right? It's possible he had only set out with Merlin, but if Merlin were around, he would insist on staying with him, that mother hen. Perhaps he had been separated and injured? Maybe everyone else was looking for him? Or maybe the whole party had been lost. No, maybe they were just injured. Maybe they were perfectly fine and resting somewhere else around here? Maybe someone had just stepped out for a while?

He tried to focus, to think about the last thing he remembered, but he swore he was just reviewing the wheat harvest yield and making storage and dispersal plans for the winter. Sitting around and trudging about with math and paperwork didn't particularly scream 'wake up in a strange land injured with no one else in sight'. Maybe he had finished that mountain of paperwork and insisted on a hunting trip that went wrong?

Whatever it was, he had to find some answers. Arthur pulled himself onto wobbling knees, grasping at the furniture to aid his ascent. When he was fully upright, he saw his sword sitting on a table near the window and decided that it was worth the short detour. His legs trembled as he slugged the span, and by the time that he had acquired Excalibur, the king broke into a cold sweat.

The door seemed an impossible distance, but Arthur managed, using Excalibur's scabbard for support when there was a lack of conveniently placed furniture. Upon reaching his destination, he took a second to recapture lost breath and ward off nausea.

The door swung open and Arthur jumped. The man on the other side of the door had fared no better, nearly dropping the potion vial he was carrying. "Your Majesty!" the unfamiliar man cried, instantly reaching out to steady him. "You really must get back to bed. You haven't been conscious for the last week and you're still weak."

Mind swimming with questions, the king allowed himself to be steered back to the bed, where he placed Excalibur by his bedside should he need it. Once he was settled enough, Arthur turned towards the willowy man and asked, "Where am I exactly?"

"Oh, don't worry, Sire. You are in Lord Staunton's castle, and I have been taking care of you since you arrived. My name is Lewis, by the way," he explained, sparing a brief glance at the king before he rooted through a medical bag he had left on a previous trip.

Arthur breathed a short sigh of relief. Staunton was one of his earls, and he was still within Camelot's confines. Chances are the court even knew where he was. "Lewis then, thank you. Do you know how I came here?"

Lewis stared at him owlishly with large brown eyes. "You don't remember?"

"No, last I recall I was working on wheat inventorying paperwork. Nothing exciting enough to warrant...well, this," Arthur explained, gesturing to his sore body.

The healer dug in his bag as he replied, "We found you, Sire, in the woods during a hunt. You had been poisoned. Lord Staunton luckily recognized you and rushed you here to me."

"Poisoned?" Arthur parroted, his concern surging. "Was I with anyone? Do you know who did it?"

"Well, Sire," Lewis began, lining up the things he would by administering by this conversation's end, "While I wasn't there myself, Lord Staunton told me that he found you mumbling something about how 'he' betrayed you."

"Who?" Arthur interrupted as he clenched the sheets and worried his lip.

"Well, we assumed it was the man we found with you, Sire. Gangly thing, no wonder why he'd resort to poison," the healer elaborated while Arthur couldn't shake the thought of Merlin from his head. "We assumed that once you realized his treachery, you ran him through with your sword there. The man was dead when we arrived."

Brow furrowed, Arthur tried to keep himself from jumping to conclusions. "Please," his voice cracked, "Tell me what this man looked like." He swallowed thickly and dreaded the response.

Lewis looked up and rolled his eyes over, trying to remember what it was his master had told him. The light switched on and he answered, "Oh, well, yes. So I already told you he was thin. Dark hair, light eyes and skin. Brown coat, pants, and boots. Blue shirt. Oh, and he had this red scrap of material around his neck or something?" Lewis vaguely waved about his neck.

Each descriptor stabbed at his chest, and Arthur pulled a hand up to assuage the ache. "Merlin," he breathed, face and body physically sinking.

"Sire, are you alright?" Lewis asked, concern wrought in his brow.

Arthur took a deep breath and persisted, "This man...is dead. And _I_ killed him? What happened to the body?" He could picture Merlin bleeding on the forest floor, watching him until his final breath.

"Your sword there was embedded in his abdomen, and you were the only other person there. There was a camp set up for two. We do not believe there was another person, no. As for the body? My Lord decided it would be best to transport you here and leave the body there. Any traitor to the king deserves less than a criminal's burial," Lewis replied, eyeballing the potion in his hand.

The king's mouth fell agape. "You...left him there. To rot. For animals," Arthur said, his voice smaller and thinner than expected. Merlin. Animals picking at his remains, scattering him far across the lands. The two images didn't belong together.

Lewis paused, unsure of how to precisely proceed. "If you wish, I can ask Lord Staunton if he can send some men to retrieve what is...left. It _has_ been a week, Sire, but if you need some sort of confirmation..." the healer trailed off as he watched Arthur captured one hand in the other and breathed grief into them.

"Please do so," the king requested, hiding his face from view entirely, "Leave me."

The healer lifted the potion and protested, "But, Sire, I need to ensure that you're-"

Arthur lifted his head and glared, eyes welling with unshed tears. "You can give me the once-over later. Leave the damn potion and I'll take it later, but as your king I _command that you leave. Now,"_ Arthur snapped, seething.

Lewis shied backwards and squeaked, "Okay, Sire. I will ask Lord Staunton. Please take this soon. It should help your body combat the lasting effects of the poison."

"Just leave," Arthur murmured, defeated.

Taking one last look at the lamenting king, Lewis scuttled out of the room.

When the door shut behind the healer, Arthur fully slid into the bed, allowing Lewis's words to wash over him. Of all the things to wake up and hear, it had to be _this_. Merlin. Incompetent, stupid, lovable, frustratingly loyal Merlin. A traitor. He couldn't be. He just couldn't. At least, not in his right mind he couldn't. What if Merlin had been possessed? And Arthur had killed him instead of saving him. Had he justified it as saving him when he himself was dying? What if Arthur himself had a spurt of madness? What if Merlin had been completely innocent? And Arthur had slain him regardless.

Rolling on his side, the king fixated on that thought, imagining how frightened his servant must have been staring down the blade of his master's sword. Maybe they fought first. That would explain the bruises. What if Merlin begged, pleaded, told Arthur to stop, that this joke had gone too far? He would be defenseless as Arthur impaled him. He pictured Merlin crying, sputtering nonsense, trying to talk his way out of his master's unjust punishment, and Arthur choked a sob. He would never know what had happened. Tears cascading down his cheeks, he pulled a pillow to his damp face and let out a raw wail. Either way, the truth stung. Either Merlin had—after all these years—betrayed his loyalty or Arthur had betrayed his. Either way, Merlin was dead and Arthur had killed him.

Arthur had killed his best friend, a best friend who was currently rotting away in the forest partially eaten by animals, a best friend who deserved better, who deserved a proper burial, who deserved an unambiguous death. He deserved certainty, certainty Arthur just couldn't provide.

Chest constricting, Arthur looked towards the nightstand and caught sight of Excalibur. Without a second thought, he reached over and swiped it off the table, sending it skidding across the floor with the goblet and water jug sloshing and crashing behind it. Lewis's potion fell to the ground and shattered, and Arthur made a pointed effort to ignore it. It didn't matter.

Completely exhausted, the king slipped into a restless sleep, leaving memories and confabulations of Merlin to haunt his feverish dreams.

 **End of Chapter 1**

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 **A/n:** That's it for now! I have a chunk of this story written, so I should update relatively frequently in theory (especially if you guys tempt me with those reviews I know you want to give me). So don't forget to do that thing!

Also: I would like to know if you guys would like this to be solely friendship OR slash (I know you haven't seen Merlin yet, but he'll show up first thing next chapter). I'm not quite sure what I prefer, but I am honestly fine with either.

~gecko


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n:** Hello all! Between here an Ao3, I'm thrilled with the response. Thanks for reading and following and reviewing and the like. Though not everything will be clear at this point, I hope you will be able to make more sense of it. **AWholeFleetOfShips** , I am also a huge fan of Merlin!whump (don't worry there will be _plenty_ ). And yup, **DwaejiTokki** , you guessed it. Dungeon!

This is one of those chapters that *probably* isn't for the faint of heart. It's not my worst, but lords, it's not terribly nice. Again, if you cannot handle captivity/torture/violence, I recommend you leave now. Maybe go look at my ridiculous Merthur fluff instead.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Merlin, and I am certainly not profiting off this endeavor. All mistakes are my own.

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A Criminal's Burial

 **Chapter 2**

Merlin awoke with a sharp kick to the side that left him breathless as he struggled in his chains. If his ribs weren't broken before, they certainly were now. "Hey, traitor, care to guess who woke up yesterday?" his tormentor asked with a delighted grin.

The sorcerer answered with a gasp.

The man rolled his eyes and continued with a teasing tone, "No, no, no, it's not—" He imitated Merlin's raged breaths. "—It's your pal, the king! King Arthur! Up and with the world of the living. He seemed a bit upset when I told him that you yourself were no longer residing there." He smiled, drew a small knife he kept at his side, and crouched down to see his captive's eyes. "I don't know what upset him the most," he continued, running a finger down the body of the blade, "Let's see...Was it when I told him you betrayed him?" Merlin's eyes widened as he worked on evening his breaths. "No, I don't think it was then. He seemed to think that it must have been _his_ fault when he _killed you._ "

"No," Merlin panted, trying to pull at the chains that bound him to the dungeon floor.

"Oh but yes," Lewis cried as he crushed Merlin's hand with his foot, relishing his prey's faint pained puff. "That little 'fact' really seemed to do him in. You know, you really should have seen his face when I described you for him. It just kind of crumpled like this." He put on his biggest frown, wrinkled his brow, and used both of his hands to mock wipe at his eyes. "Boo hoo," he sneered. "You know, when I left, he was just about to cry. Asked me to leave and everything. Now that, that I did not expect."

"No," Merlin protested, "Arthur would never...Not over me." He strained weakly, choking back a sob as he ground one of his ribs into the uneven stones beneath him.

Lewis swished his mouth back and forth and toyed with the knife in his hand. "Well...I suppose it partially could have been how exhausted he must have been—that fall on that noggin of his couldn't have been too nice—but I promise you I am not lying. There's no point. I would have been just as pleased to tell you that he was satisfied with a job well done. Or that he didn't react at all. No matter his response, it's still quite enjoyable, I swear. Only this option makes this"—he cut Merlin's bloody neckerchief from his neck—"Far, far more enjoyable."

"What are you going to do with him?" Merlin asked, trying to maintain what little composure he had left as he met his captor's eyes.

Smirking, Lewis continued, "Well first, I'm going to give this"—he waved Merlin's neckerchief—"to your little kingy. A little souvenir of sorts. I'm sure he will be positively devastated. Then we're going to send him back home to Camelot, and unbeknownst to him, he'll have left his precious manservant starving in our dungeon."

"And bleeding. You certainly can't forget the bleeding," Merlin retorted with a strained voice and feigned cheer. It almost made his miscellany of injuries hurt less. Almost.

Lewis looked stunned for a moment before he busted into a full-bellied laugh. "You know, I can see why he likes you. Always apt to crack a joke. I really wonder how long that will last..." he trailed off, completely enamored with the curvature of his knife. Tearing his eyes away and adhering them instead to his captive, he resumed, "But I suppose I shall give you a break for now, since you and your master have done nothing but entertain me today," he pulled a vial from his pocket, crouched to Merlin's level, and waved it in his face. "Now, are you going to be good today?"

Merlin's eyes widened as he struggled against his chains, effectively reopening the wounds on his mangled wrists. Clenching his jaw, the sorcerer lowered his forehead to the dungeon floor, shielding himself from his tormentor. Anything to delay the potion that Gaius's apprentice was sure was poison.

Without so much as a taunt, Lewis yanked Merlin's head by his hair and smashed it into the ground below with one swift motion. Reeling with empty stomached nausea, the boy felt his features slacken for a moment as pain radiated from the left side of his face. That moment lasted just long enough for Lewis to grab his jaw and force it open.

One eye now blinded by blood, Merlin blearily stared at his captor, seeing nothing but vague shapes and the cruel red twist of the man's smile, entirely missing the elation present upon the conception of a new idea.

Agonizing seconds passed with Lewis's hands clamped like a vice around his jaw before the man extracted a two handkerchiefs from his pocket. He gave one an appraising look before stuffing it in the sorcerer's mouth. In a practiced motion, he uncorked the vial single-handedly and poured it over the stuff gag.

Merlin, with the ends of his strength, tried to force the gag out with his tongue alone, but wound up tasting unmistakable marriage of the foul potion and whatever filthy occupation the kerchief previously maintained. The more he struggled, the more of the potion he inadvertently consumed, and before he knew it, his lips and tongue numbed, all feeling redirected towards searing burn as the poison slid down his throat and into his stomach.

Merlin heard a chuckle in addition to the ringing of his left ear. As Lewis released his jaw, the sorcerer fell dead weight onto his captor. He hadn't realized the other man was the only one keeping him somewhat upright. Head lulling like a newborn babe's, another round of nausea hit Merlin as Lewis jerked him back again. Without brevity, the familiar gut-wrenching, sorcerer-doubling pain returned. Only this time, it left Merlin without the solace of smacking his deadened, dehydrated lips together.

As the servant curled into himself in a weak attempt to compress the pain, Lewis wrapped the second handkerchief around Merlin's face to secure the initial gag. He tied it with a satisfied hum, amused by how it seemed to both flatten and flare the boy's ridiculous ears.

Gently lowering the servant to the dungeon floor on his right side, Lewis gave him a reassuring, gentle pat on his abused back. "Try not to suffocate," he encouraged with gaiety belying his statement. "I'll be back soon," he said, waving Merlin's original bloody neckerchief in farewell, "But first I just must go see the hounds. And your little kingy. Can't forget that." Without another word, the man turned on his heel and strode out of the dungeon, slamming and locking the cell door behind him.

Merlin groaned as he sunk fully into the uneven floor beneath him. Though he could feel his one eye swelling over and his stomach warring to retain its nearly nonexistent contents, he wiggled his hands underneath his burning gut, trying to physically hold himself together. He _had_ to stay awake, and he _most certainly_ could _not_ vomit. Clenching his jaw, Merlin took as deep of breaths as he dared with his injuries battling for the most hurt.

He still could not move his mouth with any degree of dexterity, and he gave up that effort in fear of pushing the cloth back into his throat. Accepting his filth-flavored fate, Merlin turned his foggy thoughts to Arthur, who he prayed was doing as well as Lewis claimed. Most of this week had been a drugged daze, and today had been the first where Lewis had even allowed him to exist without the poison's influence for more than an hour. In that hour, he'd mostly fallen back asleep, waking with regret tinging the cemented ache in his stomach. Even if he were alert enough to focus his magic, the sorcerer knew he couldn't go far; he couldn't save himself, let alone find Arthur.

Helplessness consuming him, Merlin did all he could to stop himself from crying. The last thing he needed was a stuffy nose to quite literally kill him. Taking a few measured breaths, he focused on Arthur again. Plain Arthur. Biggest prat ever Arthur. Horrible morning riser Arthur. Can't dress himself Arthur. Aims poorly only when throwing objects at his servant Arthur. Stupid, stupid Arthur.

Merlin moaned beneath his gag, mourning the absence of the other man. He _needed_ to know if Arthur was even still alive; he needed it more than his hard-won air. He needed to know if everything was still worth it.

Starting to slip, Merlin clenched his jaw as tightly as he could manage, hoping it would be enough to save him were he to black out. For a brief moment, his magic strained and surged. As the sorcerer closed his eyes, he saw an image of Arthur behind his lids. Sleeping, eyes red-rimmed, but otherwise okay Arthur.

With a hopeful final thought, he allowed himself to drift off.

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After a short game of tug o' war with his lord's hunting hounds and some lunch, Lewis cleaned himself up before heading to the prince's chambers. A new potion was swaddled in Merlin's neckerchief in his pocket, and he continued to hum merrily down the corridor.

Now at the door, the man took a moment to compose himself, settling on the usual demure face of an overworked healer. Figuring that the king may now actually be conscious, he rapped twice on the door to announce his presence. With no response, Lewis slipped into the room with a servant's caution.

The king was turned on his side, but indeed conscious. Expression blank, He stared at a fixed point in space on the floor where Excalibur lay.

Resisting his trademark smile, Lewis carefully approached the bed. "Your Majesty," he carefully prodded, making sure to induce the proper amount of concern. When the king failed to acknowledge him, Lewis continued, "I know you are upset about your servant—"

Arthur snapped his attention to the healer, mouthing incoherent objections born on his breath, dead on his lips.

"—But I must insist I check you over properly this time," Lewis finished, grabbing his medicine bag.

Not quite trusting himself to speak, Arthur merely nodded his consent.

With a weak smile, Lewis set to work, applying ointments on the king's many bruises and stray cuts. Now, a week later, none of the king's injuries required proper dressings, not even the head wound. Several silent minutes past with Lewis's skilled ministrations.

Content with his work, Lewis pulled back with a sigh. "I believe that is everything, Sire. If you would please _take_ the potion this time—No, don't worry, I see the last one. I will send a maid in to take care of it—I assure you you'll feel much better. You still haven't fully recovered from the poison, and it should help you sleep." He offered the vial, and Arthur took it, guiltily eyeballing the shattered remnants of the other.

"How long?" Arthur began, voice unsteady.

Lewis quirked a brow. "How long what, Sire?"

Arthur shook his head. "How long will it be until I can return to Camelot?" he asked, eyes focused behind Lewis to some point past his right shoulder. Ah, yes, the window.

Lewis gave the kind a once-over. "Well, I wouldn't imagine more than a few days, Your Majesty. We are prepared to send you home with a full convoy," he explained, fruitlessly studying the king's face.

"Good, good,"—he glanced again at the window—"Tell me...Did they have a chance to find...anything?" Arthur wondered, licking his dry lips.

Before the healer answered, he saw flickers of unease swim across the young king's face. "Ah, yes, Sire. We found this"—he procured the neckerchief—"In the forest. There was little else, Sire. Just a few bits here and there. And even then, we can't be sure. It seems as if the animals got him."

One hand firmly clenching the bed sheets, Arthur held out the other. "May I?" he implored, gesturing to the bloody garment in Lewis's hands. His brows furrowed together as he squinted at it from this distance.

Lewis clung onto it for a moment longer than necessary, admiring his own stroke of genius. "Right, here you are, Your Majesty." The healer placed the neckerchief in the king's reluctant hands.

Arthur's hands clutched at the fabric the second it touched his palm. He inspected it closer, turning it in his hands, feeling all the mud and blood that stiffened it, all the shreds that weakened it. There were a few places where the original red shone through, and Arthur felt himself drawn to those places, stroking them as if they were the last shreds of purity in existence. "Animals," he breathed, tracing the obvious tears in the thin fabric with his eyes. "So there's nothing else left?" Arthur asked more the neckerchief than the healer.

"No, Sire, not that we could confirm," Lewis answered neutrally. This way the king wouldn't expect a body.

"Right, because the animals," Arthur repeated, running his fingers along a particularly dark patch of congealed blood. He took another moment to examine the neckerchief before mumbling, "You are dismissed."

Lewis, prompt to act a proper servant, bowed low and said, "Yes, Your Majesty." He excused himself, pleased by the king's response.

Arthur, who barely noticed the healer's absence, continued to turn the neckerchief over in his hands. In disbelief, he worried the fabric until his palms sweat so profusely that some of the garment's grime rubbed on his hands.

The second he noticed, Arthur dropped the fabric in his lap and stared at the thin coating of Merlin's blood across the pads of his fingers, transfixed by the sight. His mouth fell in sheer horror, and he flung the neckerchief away from him. As the cloth fluttered to the floor beside his bed, the king grappled for Lewis's potion.

His hands now trembling, Arthur struggled to pop the cork. Forcing himself to look at the vial in his stained hands, he managed to open it. Hands shuttering so violently that he could barely lift it to his mouth without spilling its entirety, Arthur quickly sucked it down, disregarding the taste and the spillage across his lap.

Dropping into bed, the king's attention fell back to the jetsam neckerchief that lay beside the shattered vial, its dried green contents, and Excalibur not far past. As he felt his eyelids drooping, he startled, remembering the maid who was to come by. In his last waking moments, Arthur gingerly scooped up the neckerchief and tucked it under the opposing pillow for its own safety.

Maybe he couldn't protect Merlin from himself. Or the animals. But he would be damned if he couldn't protect the poor man from a pesky maid.

He would be damned if he had nothing to bring back at all.

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 **End of Chapter 2**

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 **A/n:** That's it for today folks! Dun dun dun!

And while I was a bit surprised by this (in the past, people jump at slash), most of you voted in favor of a friendship fic! I can definitely do that. It might border between friendship and pre-slash because Merthur is so freaking strong it physically hurts me in literally any form.

As always, make sure to review and continue to be wonderful readers you have been! (seriously reviews are writer food—the FDA has ruled it 9.5x more nutritious than my poor college student diet.—The more reviews I get, the more I stare at them. The more I stare at them, the more I think I ought not let you down and pump out this chapters as fast as I can with my stupid cracking little fingers.) 'Till next time!

~gecko


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n:** Hello again! Sorry this took longer than it should have...

 **Special thanks** to **DwaejiTokki** , **Aaronna** , and **mersan123** for their continued support. And to answer your general worry: Yes, Arthur will eventually find out Merlin _is_ alive, but alas, not in this chapter! Maybe not for a little while, and they're going to have to work to get there (well, _Merlin_ is). Sorry! I'm introducing some of the bigger plot at hand, so I hope that I answer _some_ of your questions today.

* **Notes on canon:** I just realized I never gave this story a real timeline alongside canon. Please disregard any slip ups and take this story for the mess that it is. I'm thinking it's roughly the end of season four, only I'm kind of disregarding the whole Arthur/Gwen thing (solid Lance/Gwen shipper here), Arthur already has Excalibur, and this plot is more... _instead of_ the finale. Forgive my incongruities!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Merlin, and I am certainly not profiting off this endeavor. All mistakes are my own.

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A Criminal's Burial

 **Chapter 3**

Laughter bubbling up in her chest, Morgana erupted with a single bark as she saw Merlin slump to the ground in defeat. Her eyes traced the figure in the scrying stone, mouth curling into an unpracticed smile. She found joy in the discouraged curl in the man's knobbly spine, the slack expression on his face as it melted into the stones, and the smatterings of blood and filth littering his sallow, bony frame like poppies across the countryside. In fact, she could barely distinguish the original color of the servant's remaining garments—his shirt and pants—as they were nothing more than glorified tatters that only clung to him because they had adhered to his wounds.

As much as she would love to have that despicable manservant in her own clutches again, she was quite pleased with her ally's technique, though it had yet to yield any results. The boy always was stubborn, not to mention frighteningly loyal. However, if he were to break, he would be a valuable source of information; if not, regardless, the boy would have to earn his death after days—possibly weeks—of torture, and Arthur will be devastated. Arthur _was_ devastated, distracted, _vulnerable._ Yes, she decided, killing the servant in this manner was particularly satisfying in the long run, information or not. Not only would the boy be out of the way once and for all, but she could enjoy her brother's anguish as he loses both his dearest friend and his beloved kingdom.

A knock yanked her from her reverie, and Morgana's gaze shot towards the door, where Agravaine was already entering unbidden. After an eye roll and a terse castigation, Agravaine was quick to apologize, stammering and stumbling over himself. "My Lady," he offered in subordinate greeting, giving a low bow the witch ignored in favor of examining the rigid image of the manservant.

"Have you succeeded in organizing my men within the citadel?" she inquired, watching the boy's body wrack with full convulsions.

Agravaine cleared his throat and responded, "Yes, my Lady, is there news on the"—he pointed to the crystal—"situation?"

"See for yourself," she said, proffering the stone.

Together they watched as the servant's face contorted, compensating for the closed eyes and clenched jaw, which was holding fast around his gag. His convulsions grew more violent, thrashing bodily, each limb acting as independently as it could manage, movement barely halting as he crashed against the floor or caught against his restraints. Within seconds, the boy slackened completely, sinking formless to the ground as he briefly blacked out. Stomach visibly contracting, the servant woke and doubled over, fighting to either delay his sick or force the gag from his mouth.

The two watched in morbid fascination, torn between the pleasure of the boy dying here and now and the thought of him surviving another day. Morgana's hand tightened in anticipation, consumed by the crystal's apparition, which was stiffly working its jaw, terror wrought in its ghastly brow.

Just as the witch was sure the boy would not survive, he pushed past brink. The gag fell to a crude necklace in time for the servant to spit out its companion and retch immediately thereafter.

Though Agravaine could not _hear_ the boy's heaves, he turned his head away, stomach churning in sympathy as the servant expelled what little he had left. Morgana, however, turned her attention to the way the boy's stomach pulsed, insistent on purging itself of its irritant.

Though his body throbbed in a meager effort to restore itself, the manservant's face smoothed with relief. He hadn't died. That was certainly something. Completely exhausted, dry heaves expended, he slid to the ground once more, careful to avoid his latest rancid addition to his immediate surroundings, and slipped into a disoriented sleep.

Now certain that the fun was over, the witch banished the image from the crystal and set it aside. "He should break soon," Morgana mused, replaying the boy's pained face in her mind.

Agravaine shook his head. "I'm surprised he hasn't already...Do you have another plan if the boy were to...expire?"

She eyed Agravaine and then the siege tunnel map he acquired earlier in the week. "If he fails to get the information from the _servant_ ," she spat. "Then we will just have to leak _something_ for Staunton to use." Displeasure twisting her mouth, Morgana continued, "But that would be unfortunate. I quite liked the thought of him getting cocky."

"Why is that, my Lady?" Agravaine asked, still unsure of Staunton's role.

"Why?" she parroted, smiling to herself. "Why, if he believes that he is the only one who has plans to the city, he will believe he is the only one who can _take_ Camelot. He will attempt to cast away my allegiance at the first opportunity. He will _underestimate_ us, and he won't even see our betrayal coming. He's the perfect distraction."

"And if we have to slip him the plans?" he continued as Morgana slid into the chair behind the map.

Fingering the edges of the parchment, she replied, "I will just say that my inside man had been asking around and he heard about these"—she gestured to a tunnel—"from one of the castle guards or some such. Regardless, I told him I did not have enough men to orchestrate such an attack. He will not be terribly suspicious, I presume."

"But my Lady, isn't that too great a risk?" Agravaine asked.

The witch glared up at the man, who was still awkwardly shifting in place, and returned, "No, considering how many men we already have on the inside and the plans I have made to infiltrate with a second wave, we will have the advantage. My men will be the only ones who know who they are fighting, and we will far outnumber whatever Staunton can scrape together."

Though he wasn't confident that Morgana's plan was perfectly sound, he figured it could yield better results than a straight-on siege. After all, he had spent the last several months settling hundreds of men in the castle, finding them work, lodging, and weapons. When the time arrived and the battle horn sounded, they would cut down every dutiful Camelot guard and knight in sight. Camelot's defenses would be fractured, and they would be able to garner control for themselves.

It just might work.

* * *

Stretching as best as he could manage given his surroundings, Merlin soon regretted the action as his ribs ached with a renewed fervor. After he clumsily repositioned himself, he pushed at them experimentally, hissing as they shifted back beneath his touch. Merlin sucked in a gasp as he removed his hand and rode through the pain. Definitely not good, he thought. Once the worst of it had passed, Merlin gingerly placed his hand back, whispering a spell under his breath. Though he was rubbish at healing magic, surely he could coax his errant bones into place.

As his bones ground into position, Merlin choked, trying to get a handle on the pain. Bracing himself, he pushed again at his ribs. They throbbed, but held steady. At least he was no longer in danger of them shifting further and puncturing his organs. Who would have thought his usual telekinetic spell and a bit of will would push bones back into place?

A spell. Merlin's eyes widened at the realization; he had not cast one the entire week, too knackered to so much has focus his thoughts. Though he was now sporting a smarting bruise across what felt like half of his face, his mind felt clearer than it had in days. Had Lewis not adjusted the dosage of that potion? Perhaps he was starting to gain a bit of a tolerance? Not enough of one to sidestep the potion's adverse effects, of course, but if it allowed him to wake up sooner, he could strategize. Maybe he could even find a way out of here, find Arthur and a way back to Camelot.

Unsure of when Lewis would return, Merlin settled back down with his thoughts. If his tormentor were to return, Merlin could not risk the man upping the dosage. It might incapacitate him further, assuming it didn't kill him outright. He simply could not afford that, and he had to fix what he could now.

Figuring the probably was relatively low that he did not have some sort of infection, the sorcerer wracked his brain for any sort of spell that could possibly work. No outright healing spells coming to mind, Merlin tried to think more creatively. If a telekinetic spell could move bones, something relatively familiar could possibly do the trick. An infection, an impurity in the body. An impurity.

Arthur's foul socks and smalls.

The servant grimaced, trying to to shove the thought from his mind, unsure of how it arrived there to begin with until it hit him. An impurity. Dirt. Grime. Something that wasn't supposed to be there, something tainting the original form. Grinning to himself, Merlin felt the corners of mouth crack as he practiced the words in his head before saying them aloud.

Any shred of consequences flew from his mind within a split second, and the sorcerer whispered the spell, directing it internally instead. Though he felt no immediate effects, Merlin felt he had done the best he could have. If it hadn't worked, well, no harm no foul, he supposed. At least he didn't turn himself into a pair of Arthur's socks.

Amused by the thought, Merlin smiled, only to feel his lips crack further. God was he parched. He licked his blood-crusted lips, trying to generate some sort of moisture, but failed, tongue sticking and pulling at his lips as he tried to remove it. Swallowing thickly, he wondered if there was something he could do about it.

He tried to summon water to no avail. After trying a few more times, Merlin gave up entirely. He would either have to escape with these injuries or hope he was given something, which seemed just about as likely as escaping right now. Then again, if Lewis wanted him to speak louder than a standard whisper or croak, he'd have to give him _something._

His stomach sounded at the thought of _something,_ and he immediately tried to banish the thought. He was more likely to be watered than fed.

Deciding that if he were to ever escape this dank dungeon, food would be one of his primary concerns, the sorcerer turned his attention on thoughts of _how_ to escape in the first place.

If he tried to leave right now, there was the chance he would run into Lewis. However, if he stayed and waited until Lewis's next session, there was a chance that he would be worse off than he is now, possibly even dead. Merlin tested his limbs and gave up on the former idea; he still would not get far were he to run.

Then there was the whole matter of finding Arthur. He just _had_ to still be alive. He _had_ to.

Before he could consider much else, the metal barred door opened with a jarring creak, and a large shadow emerged from the dim hall lighting. Merlin froze in place and clamped his eyes shut, hoping that his breathing would not give him away. Did he normally have the slowness of slumber or the quick pace of poison?

Thankfully, Lewis did not seem to notice anything amiss and proceeded to ritualistically light the torches encircling the room. His heavy footsteps sent vibrations through the stone floor, and Merlin shuddered, his manacles seeming tighter than before. Breath hitching, chest constricting, the sorcerer tried to fight off the sheer terror consuming his body and hijacking his mind.

As the heavy footsteps grew louder, Merlin struggled weakly. He pulled at his chains, fingers clasping around them as if he had the strength to uproot them entirely. A chuckle filled the air, and its echoes arrested what little free space the cell possessed, stifling the captive with his tormentor's seemingly redoubled power.

"Wakey, wakey," Lewis sang, mouth twisting in a cruel smile as he pushed Merlin onto his back with a foot. The servant greeted him with a wild look, eyes darting rapidly, unseeing.

"Good, good. I see you survived," he said, surveying the kerchief that was still tied around the boy's throat and the new bile coating the stones. "Are you going to tell me something useful today, boy?"

Merlin shook like a leaf in response.

"I take that as a no," Lewis supposed. "But, I'm afraid I must offer you an ultimatum: either tell me something _today,_ or I will gut you here and now and leave you here to _rot_." He paused, watching the servant's face fall, before he added with increased severity, "And I will make sure you die knowing that I will take someone _else._ It might be a fellow servant, a knight...Perhaps a _child_ if I get bored. But I _will_ get what I want. I am giving you the chance to end it with you."

Grappling for his magic, the sorcerer grounded himself as he felt it there waiting for him. "I-If," Merlin began, voice scratchy and harsh, "If I tell you?"

"I'll have to ensure you aren't lying to me, of course, but I will provide you with a quick end," he guaranteed with a solemn voice and face.

Merlin studied the other man's face, looking for any hint to indicate he was lying. Though he knew Lewis was a skilled actor, the servant was convinced the offer was genuine. "And in the meanwhile?" he rasped, "While you are checking?"

"I will ensure you do not die and nothing worse befalls you," Lewis answered in the softest tone Merlin had heard him speak.

Merlin nodded, swallowing back some of his raw emotion. "And what of Arthur?" he asked with his brow wrinkled in concern.

"He will die," he stated. Merlin took a shuddering breath as the other man elaborated, "Regardless, tomorrow, we send the king back on a full envoy. Once we know how troops can infiltrate the castle, we will have our men on the inside kill him. With no one to organize a counter-attack, we will invade. Regardless, he will die. It just depends on you, whether _you_ tell us, or whether we have to _ask_ someone _else_."

Bowing his head in resignation, Merlin took a moment to reconcile his next action. He took a deep breath and looked up, meeting his captor in the eyes.

"Fine," Merlin breathed, "I will tell you."

* * *

 **End of Chapter 3**

* * *

 **A/n:** That's it for today! Does this answer some questions? I hope so! Did it raise a few more in their place? I hope that happened, too! Any predictions as to what Merlin's doing here? I promise it's a bit crazy.

This chapter was exceptionally difficult for me to write, but I would not have gotten through it were it not for all my lovely reviewers. So please, be sure to review! Even if it's a quick some such like "pls update", I really appreciate it. University started again last week, so please give me the motivation to procrastinate to _your_ benefit.

~gecko


	4. Chapter 4

**A/n:** Hi guys! Sorry it has been forever. I actually PMed my lovely reviewers ( **Aaronna, DwaejiTokki,** and **CaughtInTheRa1n** ) a month ago saying I'd have it up two weeks at the latest. Sorry guys I lied. **Special thanks** to those guys for motivating me to at least crunch out a couple hundred words before bed for the last few weeks or so. Thanks to all of you who are continuing reading this, and I hope you enjoy this (horrifically late) chapter!

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Merlin, and I am certainly not profiting off this endeavor. All mistakes are my own.

* * *

A Criminal's Burial

 **Chapter 4**

Stretching skyward, Arthur drew a deep breath of the fresh morning air and cleared the stale cobwebs laced in his lungs. Though the sun pricked at his revirginized eyes, Arthur shut them and basked in the sun's warmth as it smoothed away his chill. When his muscles cramped at the strain, he eased them back down with a sigh. He was still exhausted as ever, a deep-seated weariness weighing him down pace by stubborn pace. At least he was now allowed outside. Anything to escape that dreary little room with those dismal nagging thoughts.

Arthur strode through the bustling courtyard towards a small clearing just outside the gates. He swam upstream in a torrent of indistinguishable faces, trudging through a wash of gnarled voices and distorted daily commotion. The guards gave him an odd look as he passed, but whatever expression he was wearing apparently inclined them against inquiring.

Now outside the castle main, Arthur paused. There was not another soul in sight between here and the treeline. After pacing the short span, Arthur slumped against the first sizable trunk of the bunch and stared into the forest, vaguely wondering if he was facing the direction _it_ happened.

His hand immediately flew to his full pocket, automatically reassuring himself before he had the opportunity to process his panic. The neckerchief was still there.

Closing his eyes without removing his hand, Arthur's head lulled to a shoulder. Blacks and oranges danced beneath his eyelids as the wind waved branches in salutation to the sun. Stronger boughs creaked, bending to the wind's will; dry grass rustled, painting itself in whorling swirls; and the earth hummed, reverberating with the life it reared. All nature's majesty abound, and all of it fell unintelligible against the king's senses.

Swaddled within his own body, he barely noticed as his skin colored or his borrowed clothes chafed. He—an acclaimed and confident king—was reduced to little more than a ball of obscure unease. Everything about this entire situation was _wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ he thought as he rolled his head into the tree.

The shock more so than the pain jarred him into an unwilling alertness, and he huffed in weak protest. He was tired of thinking about _this_ and its utter wrongness. He was tired of sleeping for exhaustion's dreamless sake. He was tired of waking up with Merlin's name bubbling up on his lips. He was tired of lamenting anew upon waking. He was just so _tired._

Wrenching out a strangled laugh, Arthur closed his eyes once more, wishing he could just get some sleep. Sleep where he wasn't too exhausted to dream, but sleep with a dream that did not include the man who had constantly been at his side for the last five years.

Five years, Arthur thought, in the last five years he had never really been alone. Even when the servant was out on his occasional tavern benders, Arthur always had his knights, his advisers, and for a long time, his father and Morgana. Spare a few moments of stolen solitude, he was never alone.

Yet no one was here.

Eyes opening, the king examined his surroundings. Any other day, he would probably formally consider this Staunton's land and his estate, but today, today he was just in an unfamiliar forest near an unfamiliar castle, full of unfamiliar faces. He was utterly alone, alone and deprived of his sole source of nearly constant companionship: Merlin.

Drawing the neckerchief from his pocket, Arthur spread it across a thigh, hand smoothing it out as his eyes raked over the scrap in the light of day. He thought of all the times he had teased the other man over this very article of clothing, how Merlin would snip something sharp in return, leaving Arthur sputtering a dull "shut up, Merlin".

The wind rustled once more, kicking up dead debris and flushing them against the incriminating silence. With the wind came voices, and Arthur perked and turned towards the direction. From his place just on the edge of the forest, he could spot a patrol returning, its men joking and shouting as they jostled and shoved one another from aback their horses.

The noise was a familiar one, and Arthur felt himself drawn to the sound and the normalcy it supplied. When Arthur went undetected as they passed him, he was slightly concerned for the men's observation skills. Any lax security in his lord's lands could mean a hole in Camelot's defenses, the eventual loss of his own kingdom. He would have to talk to Staunton himself when he had the opportunity.

A horse whinnied, and Arthur shot up, setting himself to follow the patrol at a distance. How else had he even gotten this deep into Camelot, were he not traveling on horseback. Perhaps, if he were lucky, his own horse would be in the stable. Once he had reentered the castle boundary, he saw the men hand their reigns off to a couple of boys, who led the horses in the opposite direction.

As the raucous knights jostled off towards the castle, Arthur spared them no second thought and started after the two boys, who were each leading four horses a piece. The horses, for their part, trotted merrily along with little objection, and the boys slowly led them through the congestion with a practiced ease.

Arthur darted ahead to catch up with them, cutting in close the the taller albeit thinner of the two boys, who was clad in a tawny jacket and topped with a mess of unruly black hair. Startled, the king stared just long enough to make the boys stop and ask, "Yes? Sir?"

He shook his head and looked at the other boy, a blond, instead. Clearing his throat, he simply asked, "Would you happen to have my horse?"

"Your horse, sir?" the blond parroted, shrugging towards his partner, who shrugged back and looked at Arthur like he was some nutter on the street.

Arthur sighed and rubbed his temples. In the citadel it was rare he had to bite out precisely who he was. "Yes, a chestnut stallion. White socks, a stripe here"—Arthur stroked from his hairline to the tip of his nose—"Surely someone would have told you you were housing the king's horse?"

"The king's horse," the two muttered as they looked up at Arthur, mouths agape and stuttering apologizes.

With a shake of his head and a noncommittal wave of his hand, Arthur continued, "No need, just, have you seen my horse?"

The brunet, quicker to regain his composure, replied, "Did it come with another, sire?"

"A dun one? Black mane? Bit rude?" the king shot out.

"Those two"—the brunet sighed—"Are terrors. Separate 'em and they nip at the others an' make this ruckus—"

"Yeah, so we gave up. Sep'rating 'em, that is," the blond finished. "Figur'd all those scars? They'd been friends a long time."

Arthur's face curled into a deep frown for a moment, and the boys interpreted it as he—the freaking King of Camelot—was displeased that they had allowed his horse to get even more nicked up. As they began their second round of apologies, Arthur stopped them with an outstretched hand, effectively silencing them. "No, that's what they did to each other. Pick at each other, scars for...from one another. That's what they do to each other. I would rather they at least remain together." Glancing at the knights' horses, shifting in place, Arthur finished, "Could I see to them, when you return them"—he gestured towards the stirring animals—"to the stable? And tell me, did my horses return with saddlebags by chance?"

When Arthur began walking, the boys took it as the go ahead to resume their trek towards the stables, and soon were leading the way. "Yes sire, Lord Staunton said not to touch 'em," the brunet replied after coaxing his horses forward.

"And how many were there?" he persisted, eyeballing the other horses and their loads.

"Two, Sire. On the dun one. There was a crossbow and some bolts, too."

Arthur's eyes widened. If he had intended to go to Staunton's land, he would have brought far more than a mere two saddlebags. Hell, he would have brought more _men._ Far more than _Merlin._ What sort of circumstances would make him venture so far out so ill-prepared?

"After you've taken care of these horses, and I have seen my own," Arthur propositioned, "There are two silver coins for each of you, one before, one after, if you bring those bags up to my quarters."

The boys nodded emphatically, and Arthur could tell the two picked up their pace, itching to fill their hands and pockets with coins (or, in the least, hot, sticky sweets purchased from the market). When they finally reached their destination, the boys set to the tasks at hand after pointing Arthur to a pair of stalls at the end of the stable.

As Arthur made his way down the aisle, he first saw his own horse, Llamrei, who was far more interested in the horse beside him. From over their short separation, his and Merlin's horse prodded at one another. Upon noticing his owner, Llamrei nickered and clacked impatiently in his stall, presenting his head for Arthur to stroke. Smiling, Arthur stroked his own horse as Merlin's prodded at his clothing, searching for some sort of treat.

Patting the horse's head before pushing him away, Arthur said, "I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you, Bunny." Laughing a bit at saying the animal's name aloud, Arthur remembered Merlin's face when he insisted upon keeping the name the previous owner had assigned. Merlin had claimed that it was to keep the animal from being confused, but Arthur sincerely believed it was Merlin's amusement at calling a stallion 'Bunny'. Though the knights had heckled him over the choice, his servant had laughed it off. Before long, the horse had proven his mean streak to just about everyone save Merlin, and they stopped joking about the horse entirely, praying that in doing so, they would receive less of his wrath.

Of course, that never worked. Even now, after being rebuked, Bunny pressed forward, trying to suss out any edibles from Arthur's clothing. Once the horse realized there was nothing for him, he huffed and backed up, choosing to stare at Arthur with his wide-set boring eyes, which were practically persecuting him for his poor preparation.

Llamrei, on the other hand, was far more content being stroked, and tilted his head into a particularly nice ear scratch. As the horse huffed in contentment, Arthur himself backed away, giving the horse two departing pats along his neck. Though Arthur was less inclined to talk to his horses like Merlin and many of his knights, the king felt it was imperative to assure them that he would return tomorrow (when they were leaving for Camelot) and that he was retiring to his chambers.

On his way out, he passed the boys and refreshed their interest in his errand by giving them each a coin. The boys eagerly nodded, telling him that they would bring those bags right up, as soon as they were done situating the knights' horses of course.

* * *

Upon arriving to his chamber, Arthur dropped into a chair near the unlit hearth. He felt lighter than he had before, pleased to see at least one shred of the Camelot that he loved, but his body still clenched, jaw locking, right hand clutching white-knuckled at the arm of his chair. There he sat, gazing towards the ashes until he cursed himself aloud. Ears ringing to conjure noise from silence, he propelled himself up, feeling a bit dizzy in the process. He forced himself forward, pacing rough uneven steps, stumbling only slightly until his vision focused.

As he rubbed at the angry scar on his temple, a knock reverberated throughout the room. Unwilling to waste another minute, the king threw open the door and hefted the weight of a saddle bag off the panting boy. After dropping the load on his bed, he awarded the blond boy with another coin. The boy, though winded from the trek with half a horse's burden, nodded and smiled, informing him that the other stable boy would be along shortly before he gave a short bow and darted in the opposite direction.

Closing the door behind him, Arthur flew to the bed, where he struggled with the belt clasping one of the bags shut. No thanks to his hands shaking from anticipation, he finally managed the task, and threw the flap back. A stench he knew to be rotten food washed over him. Eyes watering, Arthur walked over to the window, pushed it open, and took a few deep breaths. Arthur took one last fresh breath and held it as he returned to the bag, where he extracted a petrified and slightly molded loaf of bread. Tossing it aside, he braced himself for the removal of the worst offender: the cheese.

Turning his face, Arthur grabbed it and tried to bide back his gags. It reminded him of a toad in shape and color, only it was a toad that had the extreme misfortune of drying out. As his hand slipped over a particularly unpleasant texture, he flung it towards the bread, where it crumbled into large pieces against the stone floor. He briefly felt bad for the servants who would have to clean that up, but figured he was doing a public service by containing that smell to his room and not forcing half the town to smell it if he had thrown it out the window instead.

Once he was satisfied that the smell was no longer as much a threat, he returned to the pack, which Arthur learned had that disgusting cheese rot scent imbued in its fibers. Part of him hoped he would not have to burn the bag itself for its offensive odor. Bracing himself, Arthur continued emptying Merlin's saddle bag despite the stench, which he was beginning to ignore.

In the bag, the king found some dried meat (which he discarded in a similar fashion) as well as some coins and a change of his own clothing (which would definitely have to be burned). At the bottom were a few odds and ends, including a tinder box, flint, a knife, a blanket, and a miscellany of fishing supplies.

As he shoved that bag away from him, he heard another knock at the door. Upon venturing over and opening it, Arthur saw the brunet, who was winded, but pleased with his performance. Taking his load and dropping it on his bed, he turned to his coin purse, which he had left on the nightstand. "There is another copper in it for you if you remove that—er—mess," Arthur said, waving his hand in the direction of the rotten food, which was smelling up a corner of his room.

"Yes, Sire!" the boy chirped, mostly because he had yet to catch a whiff of that stench.

"And—uh—hold your breath," Arthur warned. "And take this"—he removed his own foul shirt from the first saddlebag and handed it to the boy—"You can dispose of it as you please."

The boy took the shirt and wasted no time scooping up the offensive food substances without a single complaint. Wadding them up and tying them within the material, he walked over Arthur and asked, "Will that be all, sire?"

Arthur wasted no time in giving the boy his coins. "How can you endure that?" he asked out of curiosity upon the boy's departure.

The boy turned around one last time, a cockeyed smile splitting his face as he quipped, "I work in the stables, sire." Without much further ado, the stable boy spun back around and swept out of the room, effectively ushering out the offensive odors.

Heart constricting for a moment, Arthur stared after the boy, one who could have been a younger version of his servant. With renewed fervor, he closed the door once more and set to the other saddlebag. He had an easier time removing the buckle this time, but a harder time pushing up the final flap. What if there was evidence of Merlin's treachery inside? What if there was nothing at all? What if this whole plan yielded no more answers than what he had earlier this morning?

Swallowing, he slowly opened it, and to his relief, this bag did not reek. This bag, however, did not even contain a single change of clothing. Merlin hadn't planned to be out long enough to require a change of clothing. How could Merlin have planned on betraying Arthur? One would think if you're going to betray your king in the middle of the woods, you might as well bring everything you own to quickly flee. There were no bed rolls, either, Arthur noted, but remembered Lewis saying they had found a camp set up for two. Perhaps Staunton's men had packed away the tents and things.

Beneath the blanket, Arthur found a small, old box, one that he had seen in Gaius's chambers many times before. It was all metal, battered by scratches, edges worn with age, and was corroded in a few places, likely as a result of some potions spilling over the years. Opening it, he first saw a folded letter, written in Merlin's slanted scrawl. The front only read "In case I am incapacitated and one of you clotpoles needs it for something (because quite frankly, it would be irresponsible of me to not leave this instructional letter with you lot running about)", and Arthur smiled. Within that second, he knew none of this could have possibly been Merlin's fault.

Though it was a relief, taking all the blame off his servant, Arthur sunk to the bed, clutching the unopened note. If Merlin's death wasn't Merlin's own fault, it was his. His mind searched for plausible explanations, arriving on various excuses of possession or maybe Arthur had somehow lost his sword during and attack and someone else delivered the final blow. He shook his head. No matter what, it was his fault. Merlin was his responsibility.

Chest tightening, Arthur carefully opened the letter, where he found diagrams of each plant the box contained as well as a few of plants that were useful and abundant throughout Camelot. Next to each picture were messy arrows, describing which parts to use and how to prepare them. However, the document wasn't wholly professional, given the fact that it was peppered with insults about the reader's intelligence and patience, insults Arthur was sure were directed at him.

Instead of taking offence, Arthur laughed long and hard. He laughed at how preposterous the word "clotpole" looked written, how casually Merlin can deploy "idiot", and the odd little notes like "do NOT eat this it tastes like socks". Why exactly Merlin _knew_ what socks tasted like he would never know. Sobering, Arthur placed the letter next to him on the bed, realizing that such a letter was probably designed to not only potentially save someone's ass, but to provide Arthur or the knights with fodder to tease him upon awakening, to revert their social interactions to normalcy, no matter what happened.

Sighing, Arthur folded the letter along its original creases and moved to put the it back in the box, but withdrew, sliding the parchment into his pocket alongside the neckerchief instead. He patted it and rolled onto his right side, careful to avoid laying on the precious cargo in his pocket. Surrounded by the contents of the saddle bags, Arthur stared blankly towards the window as he felt his body sink deeper into the mattress, completely surrendering itself to gravity's embrace. Legs still half-dangling off the bed, Arthur blinked slowly, every blurry awakening more confused than the last, and drifted into a doze.

Tossing back and forth, images filled his mind, images he thought appeared too real to have been mere dreams. He saw Merlin, stabbed through, Excalibur extruding about half its length as the rest of it was driven deeply into the Earth below. Blue bleeding red, red against green, all lapped up and consumed by the Earth. Consumed, shredded, limb from limb. Arthur threw himself over with a gasp.

Awake and disoriented, Arthur briefly felt his head ache, pain radiating from his hairline to cheekbone, and a few of his left ribs gave a quick throb. Gritting his teeth, Arthur curled into himself, left hand clenching as it, too, cramped. His throat tightened and burned; he couldn't breathe. Panic consumed him for a brief moment before he sucked in a successful breath. The pain had departed as quickly as it had seized him, but he could still feel its residual ghosts worming throughout his body, carving out a space of their own to occupy.

Calming down, Arthur focused on his breaths, which felt cold and insubstantial in his hollow lungs. The parts of his body that had been momentarily stricken felt empty, lopsided. He was off-balance, and the only counterweight was now his grief and burden to bear.

* * *

As Lewis was readying himself for the journey ahead, a guard approached him in the crowded stables, looking a bit out of place as his eyes darted around the crowded space.

The guard, who had seen first hand what this so-called man of medicine could do, did not want to personally incur the man's wrath. Unfortunately, it was he who had literally drawn the short straw (out of the first pick, too, one would have thought it luck would have been better) and it was he who had to deliver the news. As Lewis made eye contact with him, shooting him a look that screamed 'get on with it', the guard looked around and proclaimed, "Sir, the boy. He's dead." With another glimpse around the room, he was satisfied that his announcement was a vague enough thing to announce to the court physician of all things, he looked back toward Lewis, anticipating instruction.

"Pity," Lewis deadpanned. "Throw him in with the others, I suppose. Fill it in come tomorrow. I have a feeling another will drop off by tonight."

The guard nodded and left with a 'yes sir' while Lewis hoped that the boy's information had at least been good. He did _not_ want to have to waste more time in Camelot trying to figure out how exactly to smuggle in a small army. Figuring there was nothing more to do about it now, he set off to get the king ready to set off on the journey to the capital of their kingdom.

* * *

Upon awakening at some hour where the sun was just peaking out faint tendrils, Arthur tidied up his room, determined not to leave any useful shred of information behind (except with the expired food substances and an article of his own clothing, which the saddle boy had removed). He continued to pace until he settled down in front of the unlit hearth. What was he even supposed to say when he returned to Camelot? That Merlin was dead? When they asked, would he say he didn't know how? Would he lie, to give the others closure? Would he just insist that he didn't want to talk about it, only to endure berating about his own selfishness? What if they already knew? What if Staunton had relayed the information somehow? What if they all believed Merlin was a traitor?

No. No one could believe that, Arthur concluded, least of all the people who knew him.

Cursing his inability to remember, the king still debated on what to say, how to say it, but came back with nothing. His mind drifted to returning to Camelot himself, how returning would be. Though he always knew Merlin was dear to him, he had never expected to take his death quite so hard. He didn't know how he would return to the place that held memories of all these years, the place that held the people who loved him; he didn't know, even if he planned, that he could announce Merlin's death without wavering, without succumbing to emotion. He didn't know how to answer their questions. He just didn't know.

After what seemed like ages of fruitless contemplation, Lewis retrieved him and brought him to Lord Staunton's own chambers, sending servant boys to take care of the bags Arthur insisted on taking. Just as Arthur remembered him, Lord Staunton was a stout man, thick-shouldered but burdened with a belly that sung more of drink and feast than it did the tournaments of his youth. With exception of a few dark wisps that straggled behind the back of his head like a crown of laurel that didn't quite complete across the forehead, the majority of Lord Staunton's hair was the hair above his lip, a thick patch that extended widely across his face.

Arthur shook his hand and thanked him for his hospitality and Lord Staunton assured him that it was not a bother at all, having such an esteemed guest, no matter the circumstance. Pleasantries aside, the king commented, "The other day I followed your patrol a good distance without discovery. Do you believe you have the resources and men you need to protect this land?"

Staunton's eyebrows shot up a comical span as he assured, "Do not worry, my king. My men assured me that they saw you at a distance, but chose instead to give you the space. We are more than able to protect our portion of your kingdom. In fact, we are confident that we have the capacity to fight against her enemies as well, should you need our assistance in the future."

"Good." Arthur nodded. "And you plan on staying on my hospitality for two weeks upon returning to Camelot, is that correct?"

"Yes, sire, unless, of course, that is too long—"

Cutting him off, Arthur insisted, "Nonsense, I have taken advantage of your own for nearly the same length of time. You are more than welcome as my guest."

"Excellent." Staunton smiled widely, a glint in his eye.

Shifting for a moment, Arthur felt uncomfortable, but did not quite understand why. Perhaps it was that smile, perhaps it was a flash of some other face that he had not seen long enough to understand. Figuring his best option was returning to Camelot, the king suggested it, and the two set off towards the stables, where stable boys (including the two who had originally delivered him the saddle bags) had their horses prepared for them.

Upon Merlin's horse, Arthur saw the two saddle bags he had sent off this morning as well as another pack that he had recognized as the one that contains both bed rolls, which must have been collected by the knights and not the stable boys. The horse was tied to Llamrei's saddle, but didn't seem too upset when Llamrei occasionally swotted at him with his tail. Approaching the horses, he gave them both a long stroke before mounting his own.

Before leaving, Arthur patted his pocket, which was still full, and confirmed that everything he had prior to arriving was here as well. Though everyone in the party (Lord Staunton, Lewis, and four nameless knights) said that yes, he did indeed have everything, Arthur still looked behind him as they began their day-long journey to Camelot's citadel.

The smaller the town's walls appeared, the more unease settle in Arthur's stomach. Stealing glances at the walls behind the two knights that were covering his rear, Arthur couldn't shake his anxiousness upon returning home. Instinctively, he turned a bit to his right, where Bunny familiarly clopped beside him. Instead of seeing the rider that usually settled his concern, Bunny's disappointed eyes bore back into him. Immediately averting his gaze, Arthur stole a final glance at the walls before they disappeared into the horizon.

He was sure he had forgotten something.

* * *

 **End of Chapter 4**

* * *

 **A/n: STILL _NOT_ A DEATHFIC! ** Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, even though it was just about 92% wallowing and me setting up for future chapters (hopefully you thought that was a good amount of wallowing and not horrifically OOC for Arthur). I've pretty much got it figured out, so if you've got any theories, I'd still love to hear them. If you like my shitty imagery, let me know! Are you upset that _oh my god when are they finally going see each other it's been **four** chapters woman, GET WITH IT, _well, tell me that, too! If you're in the latter camp, all I can say is _good things are soon to come_. Drop me a line to sequester what little free time I have at home...Seduce me from my studies even! I have pieces of the next couple chapters written, so please encourage me to shovel them together in a timely manner! I really don't have much free time these days between full-time school and work and stress and illness, but I'll try to scrape my life together and I promise I'll try my best! Thanks guys!

~gecko


	5. Chapter 5

**A/n:** Hey guys! Sorry it took me so long to get this up! Everything's been a bit of an unexpected shitshow. In theory, school (the major source of present unhappiness) should be over (for good) in December, unless of course I have a mental breakdown over my thesis, which is a definite possibility at this point. Then I mostly just have to worry about grown-up things, like finding a real job and moving. So if I'm not posting again by January, feel free to shoot me a message (you can do that regardless, if you'd like).

Complaining aside, I would like to thank everyone who subscribed and favorited as well as my lovely reviewers **mersan123, DwaejiTokki, AWholeFleetOfShips, Aaronna, CaughtInTheRa1n,** **Corey YoungBlood,** and **toe walker** for being just wonderful. Seriously these last couple months have been rough, and I always have all these nice comments to look back on. Thanks guys! You're the best!

 **Disclaimer:** [insert boring disclaimer that hasn't changed for FOUR CHAPTERS here]

* * *

A Criminal's Burial

 **Chapter 5**

Sun beating against the back of his neck and arms, Merlin awoke with a guttural groan that ravaged his parched throat. As he licked his lips, he felt his tongue stick to the blood-crusted splits and peel away a scab, leaving a trace of coppery wetness, which paled in comparison to the prospect of water. Water, surely he could find some now. Now that he was outside and unbound. Somehow.

Still too weary to move, Merlin rolled his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath, only to have his first taste of the death that clouded around him, thickening the air and lining his lungs. Panicking, he feebly pushed himself upward as he gagged, the scabs on his wrists stretching and snapping, blood now greasing his palms. Merlin cried out, body trembling, hands clenching the ground beneath him.

Only you couldn't grab the ground like this, in large fistfuls of cloth and flesh.

Merlin's eyes shot open and stared straight into the unseeing, foggy eyes of a man who had been dead no more than a few days. His throat had been slashed, blood caking his clothing and flaking off in dry chunks from the fatal would. He reeled and threw himself back, falling onto another body, hand slipping and tearing at the putrefied flesh.

Reflexively shaking off the slime as his mind caught up with what exactly was smeared up to his elbow, he looked back in horror. Dozens of bodies were heaped on top of one another in this deep pit. Merlin immediately felt claustrophobic, the air choking him as he drew in too much but never enough. As his eyes shot to the edges of the pit, the steep gouges in the Earth extended upwards and closed around him, trapping him.

His breath quickened as his eyes darted across the bodies. Men and women were in various stages of decay, smatterings of blood and bruises and filth populating across pale, marbled skin, which was stretched and bloated, distorting and obfuscating their original features. They stared back at him, eyes unseeing but telling. There had been no plague, no sickness; these people had been tortured, murdered.

Murdered by Lord Staunton's men, the same men who had done this to him, the same men who were on their way to Camelot with Arthur in tow. The same men who would kill him given their first chance.

Eyes widening, Merlin scrambled, not knowing just how much time he had lost already. _This_ was not part of the plan. He had planned on escaping the dungeons the good old fashioned way, not by faking his death and hoping his body was not immediately cremated or buried in the woods or something. Had it gotten so bad that the guards—possibly even Lewis himself—thought he was actually dead?

He shook his head, dislodging the question from his mind. It was of no present importance. He just had to get out; he just had to protect Arthur. Taking a moment to inspect the walls of the pit, Merlin figured that if he made it to the edge and stood to his full height, he could possibly pull himself over the edge.

Crawling, Merlin apologized to each corpse as he crossed them, trying to ensure that every hand and knee fall landed somewhere that would be neither disrespectful to the deceased nor unfortunately messy for him. As he continued, the skin on his back seemed to split at the seams, sending meandering streams of blood downward to the lower parts of his anatomy. Determined, Merlin pressed onward despite the growing ache in his left hand, which had been ground into the stone floor an eternity ago. After a moment of inspection, he saw a base purple layer beneath the encasing grime. Not swollen, probably only bruised. Good.

Finally reaching one of the walls, Merlin half sat on one man's torso and another woman's hip for a moment and regained his breath. He closed his eyes, clutching his shredded pant legs with trembling hands. He was just so _tired._ A break, that was all he needed. Leaning his head against the graved walls, Merlin felt a fuzzy pang in his sinking brow where Lewis had proven stone is stronger than skulls. He rolled his face against the discomfort, only to awaken the angrier sore that was his cheekbone. Now alert, Merlin recoiled. This is not the lot he had carved out for himself; this is not where he would die.

Throwing himself to a stand, he sunk against the wall, dizzy. He slotted his feet in the wedges where there was nothing but ground beneath him, and slowly the world stopped spinning. It was now or never.

Extending his arms upward, Merlin breathed a sigh of relief for the sheer fact that he easily _could._ He was just tall enough for his fingers to gain purchase on the ledge. Bracing himself for failure, he pulled and kicked off the ground, scrambling to find footholds. As his arms bore his full weight, his broken ribs reminded him of their condition as his joints screamed against their treatment. Black pain dotted his vision as he was suspended in airlessness. Panic setting in, Merlin's world swam and he feared he would drown before he ever reached the shore. With a final bout of ungraceful clambering, Merlin pulled himself up and fell to a heap, gasping for air.

Curling his arm around his left side, Merlin's body shook with the tears it would have shed had he had the hydration to produce them. He whispered spell after desperate spell to keep his ribs in place, to keep them from slipping, to keep him breathing. _Anything._ Eventually his words blurred into nonsense, and he sank into the dirt, unable to maintain the stream of consciousness.

* * *

By the time Merlin awoke, the sun had long ventured beyond the horizon. Groggily, he rolled himself onto his back and stared at the sky, catching a glimpse of the half moon and constellation fragments above the copse of trees surrounding him. As he considered rising, he focused on the moon, lamenting that tonight half must be cast in darkness. Traveling would be hard enough already.

All the tree trunks were silhouetted by an ethereal blue glow while dark shadows obscured corporeality and engulfed the parse patches of wispy, shifting light. A brisk autumn breeze brushed through the trees, rattling their leaves, carrying with it a low hum. Shivering, Merlin felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise while gooseflesh rippled across his skin. Dread tightened his throat.

Petrified, Merlin slowly turned his gaze to the mass grave, watching as a pale yellow light grew as it haltingly weaved its way through the trees. The low hum, which had continued without the breeze, evolved into a haunting whistle. Merlin tensed, recognizing the tune. A funeral hymn.

Shaking, Merlin ungracefully twisted, agitating his wounds as he flung himself to his knees. Doubled over, fingers clutching fistfuls of earth, he watched as the light grew closer, the hymn grew louder. The terrified servant stumbled to a stand, arms widely flailing to regain some stability. Without a second thought, Merlin thrust himself into the opposing thicket of trees, each clambering footfall crunching the leaves behind him.

Peeking from behind the safety of the tree, Merlin held his breath as the light approached. A strange creature, composed of six limbs and two heads, emerged, light dangling ominously ahead of it, alighting a scrap of thick, brown hide. The sorcerer had expected an angry spirit, a faerie, a will o' the wisp even. All his research over the years and he had no idea what this creature could be.

The whistling stopped as the creature slumped. Merlin froze, heart thudding violently. He worried that it had somehow caught his scent, that it _knew_ there was fresh game to be hunted.

"Fucking hell, Geoff! Hold yer own damn side! And stop it with the bloody whistling. It's creepy enough out here with the damn animals rustling 'round without yer bloody whistling!" a voice boomed, and Merlin visibly startled at the sound. If it was a human, they might notice a body missing. If they found him, he could be sent where he started.

"'I'm Jeremy and I think it's creepy,'" 'Geoff' mocked with a high pitched voice, slacking his hold on the corpse they kept between them. Mindful of dead leaves and twigs, Merlin sought shelter behind another tree further away.

"It's not funny, dammit!"—Jeremy hefted the body back up—"It's bad enough I drew the short straw _three times in a row_!" Though his legs ached with disuse, Merlin sneaked behind another tree.

Geoff laughed heartily. " _Idiot,_ they're _all_ short straws!" he roared. Picking up his slack, he approached the pit with a backwards gait.

"But if they're all short straws, how does..." he began, lining himself up with the edge of the grave with his back to Merlin, who stole further away.

"That's why we make you go first!" Geoff cried. As he attempted to throw his side into the pit with the others, Jeremy dropped his own on the ground instead, where only part of the body dangled precariously off the edge of the pit without enough weight to sink it.

As Geoff began yelling strains of "what'd ya do that for?", Jeremy shouted about how he was stuck on this crappy duty because he always had to pick first. Using the noise as his shield, Merlin ran deeper into the forest, where only echoes of the body being kicked into the grave followed him.

* * *

Shouts and kicks now a distant nightmare, Merlin came crashing to the ground, adrenaline sapped by the timbering root, which had caught his ankle. His bare forearms skid across the splintered forest floor before Merlin landed hard on his chest, all the air vacating his lungs.

Stunned for a few moments, Merlin let the worst of the new and rejuvenated pain wash over him. His arms, which were merely skinned, stung, while his ankle throbbed in response to a new bruise. Lungs aching as he carefully drew in air, he slowly turned to lay on his back, where he could see the juts of his ribs spasm along with his breaths.

His vision blurred as his eyelids sunk, and he fought the urge to sleep again. He had to at least get traveling; he had to at least be on his way to Camelot. As he looked around, Merlin realized that he was not completely sure how exactly he was supposed to get back home. All direction towards Staunton's lands had muddled in his mind.

Too tired to panic now, Merlin glanced up through the tree branches, where he could barely make out the constellation Cepheus. Eyes widening, he realized if he traveled north to meet it, he would be able to get back to Camelot (or at least to an area he could recognize). He had always thought it funny the king's constellation passed through Camelot at its highest point throughout the course of the night.

As he tried to sit up again, he determined that there was absolutely no chance he was _walking_ back to Camelot. The dragonlord briefly considered calling Kilgharrah, but the trees were far too thick. He would have to find a clearing somewhere first.

Rolling his head to the left, Merlin saw faint lights a short distance away. The town, perhaps? Maybe he could at least pilfer some basic supplies before heading out again.

He forced himself upward in disjointed jerks, using the tree that had felled him as a support. Already worn out, Merlin took a moment to just breathe before he tested out his ankle, which just seemed sore albeit functional. Relinquishing hold on the tree, he took a cautious step towards the town. Though he was certain he had remastered the art of standing without pitching over, walking was a whole new dilemma. His legs, which had been mostly unemployed for more than a week, quavered under the process of working without the adrenaline boost.

Starving, achy, and increasingly dizzy, Merlin managed to bring himself closer and closer to the town, careful to avoid any potential notice. As he exited the main forest, he stole along a building to pause and scope his surroundings. A whinny filled the air, and Merlin immediately knew his next course of action.

* * *

Inside the stable, Merlin only found a few horses, none of which he could recognize. Arthur must be on his way home already then. Sighing, he made his way to a horse that seemed relatively mild-mannered, and gave her a few strokes along the neck. Grabbing a bridle and the associated tack from nearby hooks, Merlin slowly got the horse saddled up, using his magic for the heavier saddle and the difficult-to-reach buckles and straps.

As he led the horse out of the stable, he caught sight of a cloak hanging across a stool. Making a short detour, he snatched it up, only to uncover a waterskin and couple carrots, which were likely forgotten treats. Unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, Merlin draped the dirty thing over his shoulder and tied it with a string near the neckline. He uncorked the skin and took a swig of the contents, face immediately souring. _That_ was decidedly _not_ water.

Stashing it away in one of the pockets inside the cloak, Merlin took a bite of one of the carrots and it practically melted in his mouth. He finished it a bit sooner than he probably should have, but he was glad to have _something_ in his stomach. After offering the end of the carrot to the horse, who was giving him quite the stink eye for eating her treat, he stored the other carrot in the cloak and took a peek outside to ensure that no one was nearby.

Satisfied, he led the horse outside and into the forest. Merlin stopped and stared at the creature, wondering how he was even supposed to mount. Awkwardly, he grappled his way up and somehow managed to swing his other leg over the side of the horse despite the pain in his torso. He leaned to the sides and secured his legs with extra straps to guarantee that he would not fall off.

Looking up at the sky, Merlin oriented the horse in the correct direction and urged her forward. With a whispered spell, he hoped he communicated to the horse that she should just hold true to that direction. Though his ribs throbbed and his back was a mottled mess, Merlin leaned forward on the horse's neck, hand pressing against his ribs to be certain they wouldn't shift. Whatever he had done in the string of desperate spells to keep them in place was effective.

Though every rocking step hurt, Merlin remembered to cast a spell to hide the horse's last steps, so the avid hunter would not be able to locate him and his stolen horse. At least until he got to Camelot, anyhow. He just had to make it back home.

Exhausted, Merlin felt himself sink onto the horse, eyelids dropping. Now that he was on his way home, he allowed himself to slip into sleep.

* * *

Body tilting forward, Merlin awoke with a jolt, panic alighting his entire body to _move,_ to get away. He struggled, only to realize with bubbling terror that his legs were bound. Eyes darting around to survey his surroundings, he stopped, remembering that he had escaped, that he was on his way home. In fact, he could recognize a few nearby rock features in the broad daylight. If all went according to plan, he could be in Camelot by nightfall.

Still a bit jumpy, Merlin tried to quell his racing heart with a few deep breaths as he pat his horse, who was drinking water from a stream. Unable to resist the sound of the rushing water, he unstrapped himself from the horse and eased his way down. Falling to his knees, Merlin crawled over to the stream and washed his hands with the cold water before cupping them together and taking a long drink.

Water hydrating his cracked lips and soothing his dry throat, he waited for his stomach to settle before taking another deep drink. Satisfied for the moment, Merlin pulled off his cloak and peeled away what he could of his clothing. Though the water was cold and the day brisk, Merlin gingerly rinsed his face, bare feet, and what he could reach on his back. He took the skin of alcohol from his cloak and rubbed some on his temple. Hissing, he waited for the stinging to replace itself with the coolness of the evaporating alcohol before applying some to the wounds on his back. He cringed, but was otherwise grateful for the disinfectant.

A chill coursing through him, Merlin shuddered and replaced his clothing, curling into the cloak. He cast a quick spell for warmth before he washed out the waterskin and refilled it. Taking one last drink, he tucked his frozen hands into his cloak and turned his attention to his horse, who had taken to munching on some of the nearby grass.

Mounting her, he secured himself once more and willed the horse forward. He reached into his cloak and pulled out the remaining carrot, eating part of it before handing the rest off to his horse. Still exhausted, Merlin allowed himself to sink back onto the creature's neck. Within minutes, he fell back asleep.

* * *

The next time Merlin awoke, his horse had stopped at the edge of the treeline. He could see the walls of the citadel in the moonlight, and he took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he had to do next. Unstrapping his legs from the saddle, Merlin slid off, landing a bit unsteadily on his legs. He held onto the horse for a moment to regain his balance before slapping the horse away for someone to find in the morning.

Flipping up the hood of his cloak, Merlin carefully made his way through the clearing, taking steps that were slow enough to neither alert the guards nor aggravate his injuries. When he was finally close enough to touch the castle walls, he crept down them until he was just far enough from the two posted guards to stay out of view.

Rustling the wind nearby, he watched as the guards both perked to attention and called out a warning before going to investigate. Though one hung back, he was still far enough away for Merlin to sneak behind him and into the citadel. Looking back to ensure he was not seen, the warlock kept to the shadows as he made his way though the courtyard.

Successfully making it to the entrance he typically used when going to Arthur's chambers, he eased his way though the door and started up the stairs. Though every step was another ache awakened and he had to cling to the wall for support, he ascended the final flight, panting at the top. Ribs throbbing with each hitched inhale, his hand shot to them.

Without much thought, he traversed the corridors he had walked a thousand times over the course of the years, and before he knew it, he arrived in front of Arthur's door and paused a moment, hand lingering on the handle. With a deep breath, Merlin opened the door the king's chambers as quietly as he could manage and slid inside the room. He slowly closed the door behind him, taking the opportunity to lower his hood and survey the familiar surroundings. Though the entrance to the room was relatively dark, there was light glowing from the back chamber, where Arthur slept. Chances were he was still awake.

Merlin froze in place, a tremor coursing its way through his body. Part of him had thought he would never see the inside of these chambers ever again, and here he was, about to tell Arthur a relatively honest account of what had happened to him over the last week and a half; he was about to tell Arthur the truth. Well, not _the truth_ , but _a truth._ With his heart seemingly determined to wrench itself from his chest, Merlin began to shake more violently, his knees giving way beneath him. He couldn't tell the truth; the truth made it _real._ Sinking to the floor entirely, the sorcerer released a shuttering breath he wasn't aware he was holding and felt himself deflate, curling into himself, careful to cradle his ribs. When he thought about composing himself and facing Arthur just a room away, Merlin's chest tightened, breath hitching. He couldn't do this. He just couldn't.

Completely lost in his own rapid breathing, Merlin did not notice a figure slink into the room with a dagger in hand. "Show yourself!" a familiar voice commanded, and Merlin startled.

Merlin looked up, eyes shining with fright, and saw the one person he had come here to see, the one person who could possibly make everything right. "Arthur," he breathed as he reached out for his king, fingers splayed, arm shaking.

Arthur took a step back and stopped, staring slack-jawed at the puddle of dirty fabric on his floor. It only took a moment for Arthur to recognize those eyes, hidden behind a mask of filth, bruises, and blood. Dropping the dagger, he carefully approached the hyperventilating figure, who was still straining for his aid. "Merlin," Arthur exhaled, relief washing over his face.

 **End of Chapter 5**

* * *

 **A/n:** That's all folks! And since it will probably take me a while to update, I figured I might as well tell you the structure of next chapter! You'll get to see Arthur returning to Camelot, and how everyone reacts to Arthur coming _alone._ Then, by the end, you'll get to see a little bit more of this whole reunion (this was actually the first part I wrote to this story).

Anyway, I really appreciate how patient and understanding everyone has been. And goodness the support for this story between here and ao3 still astounds me. Even though it might take a while, if you enjoy this story, please continue to support me through reviews, follows, favorites, the like. Chances are when I'm bogged down with school and work and pretending I'm a grown-up, I'll look back to this for a good pick me up.

Thanks guys!

~gecko


	6. Chapter 6

**A/n:** Hey guys. I'm still around, believe it or not. I know it's a while after I said I would be free, but these last couple months have been a bit rough. Since I've last posted, I've attended all of three funerals, dealt with familial mental/health concerns, and worried over a situation I am thankful didn't end in a full-blown murder-suicide (though the latter part does explain one of the funerals, which unleashed its own mess). On the plus side, thesis done, graduated with honors, and got two new puppies. Oh, and I've a new job making decent money and plan on moving shortly. After that, I'm hoping everything will settle down a little bit more. I'm not looking for any concern or condolences, but I figured given this content it would be best to tell you guys where I am emotionally right now. Writing this has been a bit difficult lately, so I would like to thank all of you for sticking around regardless. You guys are the best!

 **Notes on canon:** Arthur has had Excalibur this whole time, even though yeah, yeah I know he gets it back end of season 4, which is essentially what this fic is modifying. Also, this chapter is going to be a little Arthur/Gwen if you're into that sort of thing. I intend for it to be platonic (super hardcore Gwen/Lance shipper here), but if you dig the ship, there you go.

 **Disclaimer:** All I own are my mistakes, which are likely plentiful.

* * *

A Criminal's Burial

 **Chapter 6**

"Sire?" Lewis asked, eyebrows peaked in inquiry as he watched the king, who was crouching on the forest floor and tracing a deep gouge in the dirt with with his fingertips.

"This is where it happened," Arthur stated more for himself than for his company, who had moments before told him that very fact. Unable to draw his eyes away from the small hole, the king felt his heart trench.

"Yes sire, that is where we found the boy," Staunton confirmed with a nod.

Rolling back into a sit, Arthur took another moment to examine the small mark, worn by rain, and wonder how such a small wound in the earth could cleave such a chasm in a world. Despite the odd looks from the escorting knights and Lewis's insistence he get up, the king remained in place, half-wishing that he had bitten his tongue before the question bubbled up. Eyes losing focus, Arthur's fingertips rhythmically grazed the ground in slow circles. It didn't feel right.

Sighing, Arthur pushed himself up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where exactly were the bedrolls?"

"Right over here, sire," Lord Staunton replied, gesturing to a space a few paces away.

Surveying the area, Arthur looked for anything that would remind him of the events that reportedly transpired here, but he drew a blank. It was just like any other forest clearing, nothing particularly special about it. That couldn't possibly be right.

He shook his head and walked towards the area before stopping dead in his tracks, nose wrinkling. He would know that smell _anywhere._ Eyes seeking the source of the odor, he settled on a glare when he found it. Gaia berries. There was a gaia berry bush. Right there, next to where the bedrolls were. Why the hell would either of them—let alone _both_ of them—agree to settle next to a ruddy gaia berry bush? Though he had made fun of Merlin and his knights for detesting the smell, Arthur was fairly certain he had better be actively dying from a Wilddeoren attack before even considering smearing himself in the paste a third time, especially after the last time, when he had to kill all the creatures regardless.

Something clenched in the pit of his stomach. If they had settled next to this bush _willingly,_ something must have been terribly _wrong._ Maybe it was even the reason he could not remember a thing. He would have to speak with his knights, with Gaius, to see determine why they had set out in the first place. If he had set out with others—others, what kind of other loss could he be returning home to?—what could have possibly happened? Had they been separated? Killed?

Dread anchoring in his throat, Arthur swallowed thickly against it. Camelot was a day away and could prove to be a world of difference. Face hidden from view, he stood there for a moment, staring off into the woods until his eyes fell on a large stick on the forest floor. Resolute, he lumbered into the thicket and snatched up the stick. Arthur snapped off the top third, which was a bit crooked and wispy compared to the rest, and headed back towards the confused convoy, who were, by now, all asking questions he ignored.

Stopping at the small hole, he paused, clutching the sticks in his clammy palm. He had killed Merlin here. He had _stabbed_ him here. Excalibur hung heavy against his belt, a snaking reminder of his own betrayal.

Sucking in a breath, he crouched down and drove the thicker stick into the ground until he was certain it wouldn't tip over. Perspiration cooling, Arthur shuddered. He couldn't help but to remember all those dreams where he had done that very thing, stabbing Merlin as if he were returning the sword to the stone. In a way, he had.

Legs trembling, he sunk to his shins and grappled with his billowing cloak. He ripped off the tattered end and crossed the first stick with the second, carefully tying it until it stayed in place.

With a final breath and a push off the ground, Arthur examined his handiwork for a minute before turning back around to the other members of his party. Though now no one dared to voice a question, Lewis's confusion behind his crossed arms and cocked head asked them nonetheless. Arthur walked towards Llamrei and Bunny in silence with eyes burning at his back. After mounting his own horse, Arthur stated, "He was a good man."

Lewis raised a pointed finger. "But Sire, he—"

"—Saved my life on multiple occasions and deserves to have died a good death. As far as I am concerned, he _did,_ " Arthur insisted with a hard stare at Lewis and Lord Staunton in particular, "I will hear nothing to the contrary. I will not allow any uncertainty to disavow five years of his good and loyal service or besmirch his good name. Am I making myself _clear_?"

A chorus of "yes, Sire" rang through the clearing, and Arthur nodded sharply before turning southward. "A day more until we arrive in Camelot?"

Disjointed muttered affirmations filled the air as everyone mounted their own horses. As they set off, Arthur drifted to the back while the knights whispered their disapprovals of showing such emotion over a mere servant.

* * *

The rest of the day and night had passed in silence, Arthur deep in his own thoughts. He hadn't slept much, unwilling to give into the nightmares that had plagued the previous nights. If he was to tell everyone Merlin had died during an attack (in which they were severely outnumbered), he couldn't very well be haunted by nightmares that insisted everything to the contrary.

As Camelot's walls came into sight, Arthur's breath hitched. It was the same as it always was, flat across the clearing, walls a resplendent white, towers grasping for the heavens. Though he had been looking forward to coming home for the better part of a week, he could not bring himself to spare Camelot another glance. Head hung low, Arthur's body tensed, reality crashing around him. He was home in a place he feared would never feel at home again.

They drew nearer, and the king could catch a glimpse of the guards standing erect at the gate, watching as people go about their business bringing carts of fresh harvested vegetables into the city walls for the morning market. The people fussed about, not entirely noticing the small convoy until they saw Arthur near the middle, clad in his sweeping Pendragon red cloak.

A man leaving the city stopped dead in his tracks, chin dropping to a gawk, and the woman behind him bumped into him. Her face contorted in annoyance before she noticed what he was staring at, and the inbound citizens stopped to turn around. Within seconds, everyone near the gate had stopped, parted a respectable distance, and stared, watching as their beloved king—and the most frequent topic of the castle gossip—returned home.

Arthur momentarily shrank beneath their gazes before he straightened up and took a deep breath. He was the king now; he had to appear as such. The moment eyes flicked to the horse trailing behind him, however, Arthur frowned deeply as he saw a few people search the entirety of the party, only to come up short. One woman, who was carrying a basket of herbs in the crook of her elbow, used her hand to stifle and audible gasp, fingers curling in front of her mouth as she closed it.

They had not known; they had not known Merlin was not coming home. Gripping the reins tighter, Arthur picked up speed to avoid their stares as his own lips thinned into a grimace. While the king pushed through to the bustling courtyard, everyone silenced, crowding around the convoy to catch a glimpse of the king.

And then they noticed, the courtyard booming into whispered comments and averted glances. Though Arthur searched the crowd, no familiar faces slid through the crowd. No Gaius rushing forward amidst a morning market trip, no Gwen passing through, no knights, heading back to their quarters after a morning of training. No one.

Throat constricting, Arthur looked around for one of his stable boys. Spotting one, he quickly dismounted and thrust the reins into the boy's hands, telling him to unpack the horses and have the contents delivered to his chambers. Before taking on two other horses from the now-dismounted knights, the boy called over to his friend, who appeared from behind one of the baker's sweet stands in the market. Together, the two of them collected all eight horses and set off towards the stables.

With a clenched jaw, Arthur turned to his guests and led the six men towards the castle itself, thankful that he could make his way out of this claustrophobic crowd. He still searched the surrounding faces, and while he could now recognize a few of the castle servants clustered around him, he could not put a name to a single one. Fist balling and unfurling, Arthur entered the castle and sighed in relief as the voices muffled behind the closed door. In the next room, he spotted the seneschal sitting at his desk writing something. "Stuart," he began, startling the man, who scratched a line across the page he was writing on.

The young man dropped his quill on the table and screeched back in his chair, nearly knocking his inkwell off the edge in the process. "Sire?"—he dove to right the inkwell, which had only splattered a few splotches onto his hand—"You're back?" Procuring a kerchief from his pocket, he blindly rubbed at his hand and stood, starting expectantly at the king for his orders.

"Yes, and I would you to personally assure that Lord Staunton and his men receive rooms and a good meal. They were the ones responsible for my return."

"Yes, Sire, right away, Sire," the man nodded, bobbing his head in reverence. Turning towards the six men, he clapped his hands together and said, "If you gentlemen would follow me this way, I will find you rooms and a servant to attend to each of you, at which point we can discuss breakfast and redirecting your belongings to your own rooms."

Arthur turned to the lord and patted his arm. "You are in good hands. Now, if you will excuse me, I must catch up on matters of state." Lord Staunton barely got out an "of course, Sire" before Arthur swiftly shook his hand and set down the hall towards the physician's chambers.

* * *

Though he had been resolved to visit Gaius first, his hand froze mid-knock on the physician's door. Shaking his head and eventually his whole body out, trying to rid himself of his nerves, Arthur tried again, hand rapping loudly on the door. A familiar voice bade his entrance, and Arthur swallowed hard as he pushed the door in. Not only did entering the space mean he would have to explain Merlin's ill-met fate, but he would have to learn how any number of his knights had fared.

The king took a deep breath as he took a step inside. Gaius was standing behind a table as usual, grinding some herbs with his pestle and mortar for some foul potion or another. The old physician glanced up, a pleased smile cracking across his face, "Sire! I had not expected you back today." Abandoning his work, he rushed forward, and his physician's gaze quickly caught sight of the wound healing on Arthur's temple. As Gaius's hand reached out to assess the damage, Arthur shooed it away, assuring the other man that he was fine and that Lord Staunton's physician had already attended to him.

Regardless, the old man bristled with concern until Arthur interjected, voice serious, "Gaius,"—he pushed the older man towards the bench behind him with a shaking hand on his shoulder—"You had better sit."

"Why?" Gaius protested, searching the king's face for any wavering indication, but complied regardless, a sinking feeling sitting with him.

Hand still on his shoulder, Arthur began, "I'm sorry Gaius."

"For what?" Gaius's lips thinned as he glanced between the king and the closed door behind them.

"Merlin..." Arthur trailed off for a moment, and Gaius's face fell. "Merlin won't be coming back."

"Oh," the old physician breathed and stared blankly into the silence. Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to say something, only to promptly shut it again. His face fell as he drooped all of his weight onto the arm against his shoulder.

Arthur's own face morphing into a frown, he continued, "I wanted to tell you first..."

Gaius merely nodded and drew his hands to mouth, thick eyebrows bowing to the news. "Did he suffer long?"

Shaking his head, Arthur answered, "I do not believe so, no." Physically anyway, he solemnly admitted to himself. "He was stabbed."

"By the beast?"

"By man," Arthur corrected.

Gaius's lips drew into a thin, grim line, and Arthur was not quite sure he could read the sour look on the older man's face. "Were you with him, Sire?"

"Yes," Arthur said, "We set up camp together, and we..."—Arthur shook his head—"It was my fault," he confessed.

Gaius's attention shot up, hand broaching his disagreement before voicing it, "No, Sire, I am sure there was nothing—"

"No, Gaius. There has to be _something_ —" Arthur insisted. Even if he had not been the one to deal the final blow, Merlin had been killed with _his_ sword. "I should have protected him," he finished quietly, eyes downcast.

At that, Gaius slapped his knees and stood, Arthur's hand falling back to his side. "Merlin could have protected himself better than you could ever understand, Sire," the old physician alluded, hoping Arthur had at least learned the truth. No such luck it would seem, with Arthur's eyebrow quirked in confusion. This close, Gaius could clearly see the pink, healing injury on Arthur's temple, contorted with his upshot brow. Physician's gaze assessing, his shaking hand reached out, stopping cold as it prodded the injury, checking for any further signs of concern. Satisfied, he dropped his hand to Arthur's shoulder and thanked any power responsible—likely Merlin's—that he wasn't going to be losing _both._ "Are you sure you are alright?" Gaius asked, voice steady, eyes searching for any sign he may have missed.

Arthur nodded, still stuck on Gaius's cryptic comment. He could only assume he meant that Merlin _had_ gotten on better with a sword, which was, to some extent true, but given who his opponent was, it could not have been a fair fight.

Patting Arthur's shoulder in parting, Gaius apologized, "I am sorry, Sire, but I must excuse myself."

"Of course, Gaius," the king agreed, swallowing the pain in his throat back down to the bubbling pit in his stomach.

"I will...check on you later tonight, Sire," Gaius promised as he walked past him towards the stairs to Merlin's room. Hand gripping the railing, he turned back a moment and said, "For what it is worth, I am glad you were with him, Sire. He always did care for you."

Eyes watering, Arthur swallowed before mustering, "He was my best friend."

Gaius smiled for a moment at the admission, only to slip into a deeper frown before pulling himself up the stairs by the railing. Arthur, for his part, stood in the silence, heart contracting with each trudged, dreaded step, and watched Gaius reach the top, visibly tremble as he opened the door to Merlin's room, and close it again, shutting it behind him. As Arthur heard a small thud and the start of a croaked sob, Arthur set for the door, rubbing at his eyes, which had decided to run with him.

Suddenly exhausted, Arthur breathed to regain his composure outside the physician's chambers. He hadn't known what to expect, delivering that news, but he certainly hadn't expected that noise, that raw wail, torn from his body as it ripped from his heart.

Hand to chest, vainly attempting to quell the pain residing there, Arthur caught sight of a boy, one he knew had recently been hired as a page, and called out. The boy froze, having never been directly addressed by the king before, but turned to face him nonetheless. Though his young face was wrought with confusion at the king's appearance, he was more than wise enough to not question it. "Yes, Your Majesty?" he squeaked out.

"Are my knights returned?" Arthur asked, voice as kingly as he could manage.

The boy nodded. "Yes, Sire, all but Sir Frederick."

"He never returned?" the king pressed, eyebrow quirked.

"No, Sire. The servants thought he would return with you..." the boy silenced, unsure if he should divulge servant's gossip to the king himself.

Arthur nodded, processing the information. He had at least set out with Sir Frederick and Merlin, though that was an unlikely combination if he had ever thought of one, given that Merlin—for whatever odd Merlin reason—always shot the man sideways looks when he thought no one was looking. "And what of the others?"

The boy looked up, meeting the king's eyes for a moment before he turned attention back to the floor. "Sir Leon, Sir Gwaine, and Sir Percival all returned three days after you had set after the beast terrorizing the towns near the Forest of Ascetir." Strange, Arthur thought. How had he gone from fighting a monster there, a short jaunt to the east, to being treated so far to the northeast in Stauton's land, which shared a border with Mercia? "They sent out search parties, but when the messenger from Lord Staunton arrived a few days ago, they called them off."

Now _that_ was the only bit of information that actually made any sense. If the messenger arrived a few days ago, then Arthur would have been home by the time Camelot's messenger had so much as arrived in Staunton's lands. Then again, given the dates, if he had stayed with Lord Staunton for a whole week prior to waking up, shouldn't a messenger have arrived _sooner_ than a few days ago, around the time he himself had left. Perhaps the messenger had experienced trouble the the road? He would have to ask later, assuming the messenger was still within the city walls.

"Any injuries?"

The boy shook his head. "None that I have heard of, Sire."

"Good," Arthur breathed, relieved. Servants usually had the second-best information, aside from the sources themselves. "Now, could you find them? Tell them I am awaiting their arrival in the throne room."

The page readily agreed and eagerly supplied, "I believe that is where Sir Leon is already. He has been attending to matters of state with Sir Agravaine."

"Excellent." Another weight off Arthur's chest.

With a farewell and an awkward bow, the boy left in a hurry, running with a bounce only a child could possess.

* * *

Upon entering the throne room, Arthur was grateful that Leon alone had occupied it, sitting in his place at the Round Table. The man, up until that very moment, had been staring intently at a document in front of him, a look of consternation on his face as he tried to read whatever illegible scrawl composed it. Suffice to say, the king had been a sight for sore eyes, and Leon rose to greet his king. In the first few moments, he filled Arthur in on the basic information that he had missed in his absence, including the basic requests peasants had made and how everything seemed utterly uneventful in the last week. Despite the fact that her king had been missing, no one had taken the opportunity to attack Camelot, a fact Arthur was pleased to hear.

"I hear Sir Frederick has yet to return," Arthur began, hoping the issue would incite Leon to tell part of the story.

"He didn't return with you?" Leon frowned. "We had assumed the three of you stayed together after we were separated by the wyverns. It hadn't been the span of twenty minutes, and you three seemed to have disappeared. We found, well, a trail of wyvern parts, and later the...remains"—the knight paused, remembering how the monster appeared to have exploded from the _inside_ —"Of the monster we could only assume had been responsible for all those deaths in the neighboring villages. But you three? The trail ran cold as soon as we had set on it, what with that storm." The knight waved his hand vaguely, assuming the king would recall such a violent and unexpected downpour that had them seeking shelter in low land and stripping the metal off their bodies as to not tempt the earth-trembling thunderclaps above.

"No, I...Don't know where he had gone," Arthur stated, trying to remember anything about wyverns, this mystery creature, or a storm. "I"—he considered the story Lewis told him—"I only _had_ Merlin."

Before Leon could ask about what his king wasn't letting on, Gwaine's booming voice erupted from the now-open doors, "Merlin? He promised he'd go to the tavern with me for once when we got back! Hey Princess, you already send him off to do chores?"

As Gwaine and Percival walked into the room, grand doors drifting to a close behind them, Arthur began in a grim tone, "Gwaine."

Completely ignoring him, the knight pressed on, "Sent him to stable the horses or wash your socks—"

"Gwaine," Arthur repeated with a deep frown, and it suddenly clicked for Leon, who dropped a hand to the table and braced himself on it. Percival, eyes flitting between the two strained faces, placed his hand on Gwaine's shoulder, which shook the man from his joke and into concern.

Shaking his head, Gwaine bit his lip and continued, "Tell me he stopped to pick some pretty flowers, gather some herbs for Gaius—"

"Gwaine," Percival muttered, his hand heavy on his friend's shoulder.

Brushing Percival off, he just shook his head and visibly deflated. "Merlin isn't coming to the tavern tonight"—Gwaine looked up to Arthur's face—"Is he?"

"No, he isn't," Arthur confirmed, and the room stilled.

"Or ever again, will he?"

"No. He won't."

Gwaine turned towards the door and ran a sweating palm through his hair. Hand clenching momentarily at his locks, he asked, "How did it happen?"

Stealing a glance at Percival and Leon, who were visibly stricken but eager to listen, Arthur rubbed at his arm, mentally preparing the lie he had been practicing in his head all morning. He and Merlin had set up camp and were attacked in the middle of the night by a troupe of men. Merlin had awoken first, but all he had was one of Arthur's daggers until he had taken a sword from a dead bandit. They thought between the two of them that they had gotten them all, but had, in actuality, missed one. His death was instantaneous—painless—and Arthur had buried him in the forest. Heavily concussed himself, he was fortunate that Lord Staunton and his hunting party had stumbled upon him or he might not have made it back. He repeated it to himself until Gwaine grit out, "How. Did it. Happen?"

Adam's apple bobbing against the betrayal, the words stuck in Arthur's throat. He swallowed, trying again to no avail.

Turning back around in a flash of anger, Gwaine stomped nearer, fists tightly balled. "What the hell happened?"

Percival wrapped a hand around Gwaine's shoulder as Arthur admitted, "It was my fault."

"What?" Leon and Percival chorused. Gwaine jolted forward, and Percival immediately yanked him back.

"I should have protected him..." _From myself,_ Arthur finished silently, mind flashing to the image that was becoming a recurring nightmare: Merlin, stabbed, Excalibur half-buried in the earth. The very sword—the traitor—still hung at his side. Soon, soon he would be able to discard the treacherous thing, but he knew it would be of little help; Arthur could hardly ever tell a traitor apart from himself.

When Arthur looked up to see the faces of his knights, all posed with questions unasked around the table, he knew he had to elaborate, "He was stabbed"—Arthur's voice cracked—"at our camp, and his grave marker is in the woods."

A loud slam echoed against the hard wood, and Gwaine kicked at his own chair, cursing as it cracked under his force. He ran his hand through his hair again before he rubbed at his face, stopping, frozen in horror, over his mouth. Arthur caught a quiver of a lip, the downturn of a brow, before Gwaine turned on his heel, stomping out of the room in a hurry.

Arthur sighed. "Percival, could you make sure he doesn't..." _Destroy all of Camelot? Make a fool of himself? Do anything_ too _reckless?_

"Got it." Percival nodded, lips thin as he sprinted to catch up with Gwaine.

"Leon," Arthur addressed, and the man startled at his name, ripped from his own thoughts. "I appreciate your assistance in these weeks. Leave the remainder to my uncle for today."

"Of course, Sire," Leon agreed, deciding he would try to find Gwaine and Percival shortly.

As the two set for the door, Arthur added, "Please tell him I am well, but in need of rest. I will speak with him in the morning."

"I assume you do not want to be disturbed?" Leon asked as he opened the door for Arthur to exit through.

"You would assume correctly," Arthur confirmed, sighing as he set for his own chambers, boneless and exhausted.

* * *

Not two hours later, a knock sounded on Arthur's door. He shouted, "Leave me!" from his place on the stone floor next to a massive chest of drawers, a chest of drawers, it seemed, Merlin had never actually put anything _inside._ Heedless of his demand, the door swung open and Arthur scoffed, leaning his head against the chest that was currently functioning as a backrest. Rubbing his temples, Arthur shouted once more, "Didn't you hear me? I said _leave me!"_ The logs in the hearth crackled, doing their best at filling the cold room with warmth as the footsteps pressed forward. "I will not tolerate such insubordination!" he called, hoping to dissuade the figure from continuing their plight. "I could have you thrown in the dungeons for this!"

"Arthur," a soft voice tutted from the other room, and the king's face fell. Gwen. Mouth snapping shut, he watched as she entered the room with a tray, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed as they sought him out. "Where are you?"

"Right here," he responded, head despondently lolled against the hard chest of drawers, a pile of miscellaneous items seated beside him.

Eyes following the sound, she gasped. "Arthur, why are you on the floor?" Moving to him, she placed the tray of food in front of him before gathering her skirts and dropping beside him. In an instant, her cold hand touched his forehead. "You're not ill, are you? I mean, I know Gaius said he hadn't properly checked you over yet, but I wouldn't have thought he'd have let you out of his sight if he didn't think that you were—oh, you're so warm!" Gwen fretted, hand slipping to his neck.

"Gwen," Arthur began, pushing her arm back down to her own lap, "I'm not ill, I swear. The halls are probably just a bit drafty. And you're babbling again. You haven't done that in a long time."

Hands wringing themselves, she flashed a tight, watery smile at him. "I know. I just..." she trailed off for a moment, contemplating her words but drawing a blank. Huffing, she dropped back against the wall, said something that vaguely sounded like a grumbled "budge over", and laid her head against his shoulder. The two sat in silence for a moment before Arthur, too, slumped against her steady frame. "So what is all this?" she asked, waving her hand about the small pile of clothing beside them, a pile that, from her estimates, contained no fewer than three shirts, two belts, a couple pairs of pants, an unmentionable number of smalls, half a dozen socks, one single boot, a broken bowl, some loose mail rings, a book, a whetstone, and one of Arthur's jackets that Gwen knew for a _fact_ Merlin hated because the buttons were not exactly flattering to the king's...kingliness and Arthur knew it. And complained about it. Loudly.

"It seems Merlin was either a very bad servant, or a very good squirrel," Arthur mused, eyeballing the pile he had found by sheer coincidence when he decided that next to the chest of drawers would be a great place to sit. At first he had laughed at the blatant disregard for his things, how he hadn't ever caught Merlin in the act, but his laughter had soon dissolved after he had fished everything out during his excavation project. Now, he just felt empty, like the underbelly of his drawers, where there shouldn't have been anything in the first place.

Gwen laughed despite herself. This _was_ a very Merlin-like thing to do.

"So," Arthur started, mimicking Gwen as he waved about the tray of food, "What is all _that?"_

"Food. For you. Thought you might be hungry," she replied as her hands automatically moved over to his laundry to identify if the pieces were meant to be thrown out, repaired, hidden, or washed.

Though he knew he should be, Arthur shook his head. "No, not particularly." He considered the bread, but left it sitting on the tray.

Gwen nodded, not feeling particularly hungry herself despite the fact that it was now well into the afternoon and all she had was a small, early breakfast. "That doesn't explain why you're on the floor," she said, nudging him with her shoulder.

Arthur looked up at his bed across the room, eyes following along the untucked sheets and uneven blanket. Upon entering the room, he had realized it was the last thing he remembered Merlin doing: hastily making his bed, grumbling about how he would fix it later. In that instant, Arthur was no longer tired, though his body was making every effort to drag him down. He had tried sitting in just about every chair in his chambers, but he could not escape the ghost of Merlin's memory. "He's everywhere," Arthur stated simply with a shrug of his shoulder, eyeballing the mess of Merlin's own making. He always had a way of inserting himself exactly where he didn't belong.

Gwen frowned and pat Arthur's thigh, letting it rest on his knee.

"I miss him," Arthur admitted, voice small as he drew his knees up to his chin.

"We all do," she said. "I just saw Gaius, and he told me. He was just cleaning, scrubbing out the leech tank with the whitest of knuckles while a potion boiled over. I don't think he believes it yet, you know?"

Arthur let out a strangled laugh into her hair. " _I_ don't think I believe it yet." Though he was fairly certain Merlin _had_ died, there were so many details that were just foggy in his mind. It didn't feel like it could possibly be real, not when he hadn't seen his body, hadn't touched his cold face. "I keep...You know, when my father died," Arthur uttered with far more acceptance than he thought he could ever muster, "Merlin was sitting just outside the door. On the floor. He was half-asleep against the staircase when I held vigil, and the next morning, when I found him sitting there, I asked what he was doing there. He just said the damnedest thing." He paused, replaying the memory, focusing on the earnestness in which Merlin spoke, and he teared up a bit.

Gwen, concerned about the pause, took one of Arthur's hands into both of hers and squeezed. From her vantage, she could see his chest rise with a deep, slow breath, and she briefly wondered if he was hesitant to share such a personal memory. After a second breath, Arthur's cracking voice broke the silence, "He said, 'I didn't want you to feel you were alone'."

It took a moment for Gwen to fully process the statement, face flitting between a soft smile over Merlin's compassion and a frown, which had solidified when she realized the implications of Arthur's statement. "Oh, Arthur, you aren't alone."

Arthur weakly smiled and squeezed one of her hands back, unable to voice just how untrue that statement felt. "I know," he began, unsure if he should elaborate further.

"But it's not the same, is it?" Gwen's voice shocked the silence, and Arthur deflated, relieved that she understood.

"No, it isn't. I keep...I just keep expecting"—his voice hitched, and he swallowed thickly—"I just expect that if I step outside, he'll be right there." Arthur's free hand lifted towards the door, and it bobbed to accentuate his words, "Right there, slumped against the wall, half-asleep. I keep walking to the door with half a mind—he would have made fun of me for that phrase." After a stunted chuckle, he mocked, "Oh, but Arthur, isn't that how you always walk around? Well, it probably would have been better than _that,_ and he would have poked fun at that impersonation, too. Or he would have argued, claiming he does _not_ sound like _that_." His fond smile fell to the dead silence, realizing to his horror that he had begun to use 'would have'. "I just keep walking to the door, hoping that if I wrench it open, I will see he's still waiting there." Tears now slipping, Gwen entwined her fingers with him, and he clutched onto her. Though a few of his own tears slid down his cheek and fell into Gwen's hair, his eyes narrowed and lips thinned, nostrils flaring in indignation. "He was always supposed to _wait_ for me. He was never supposed to go _first._ " As fast as it had swelled, his vitriol lessened, and Arthur laughed, "He was always so disobedient."

"But he loved you, you know that, right?" Gwen asked, gently prodding at his side with her elbow. "He would do anything for you."

"I know," Arthur breathed, voice barely audible. It was humbling, Merlin's pure devotion, and he let out a pained groan. He had known for years that Merlin was willing to die for him. "I didn't deserve him."

Gwen grimaced and squeezed his hand. "Well, Merlin clearly thought you were worth it."

"Well, Merlin was an idiot," Arthur stated as he squirmed his way out of Gwen's grasp.

"Arthur! That's no way to—"

Now on his feet, Arthur shot, "Well, he must have been! To trust me!" He turned away from her, hiding his tears as he scrubbed at his face. "It was my fault, Gwen," he confessed, tone softer.

Standing herself, Gwen walked over to his back and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. "Arthur, what are you talking about?"

"It was my sword," Arthur admitted as he took a few paces away from her.

"Your...sword?" Gwen parroted before her eyes widened with realization. "You mean, _your_ sword?"—she pointed to Excalibur, which was discarded on a nearby table—"Your sword...killed Merlin," she finished. Horrified, her hand flew to her mouth. Stepping back, she continued, "You didn't?"

"I-I don't know. I can't remember." He shook his head, a hand pressed against his temple as if the pressure could possibly jog something.

Gwen's mind flashed to the incident earlier in the year with Merlin and the Fomorroh. "You don't remember?" she asked as she stepped closer, visually inspecting the back of Arthur's neck. She could neither see a scar like the three Merlin had from the multiple extractions, nor could she see a creature, squirming beneath the skin.

"I know I must have hit my head at some point"—he touched the pink scar on his temple as he turned around—"But there are just so many things I cannot explain."

"Like what?" Gwen asked.

Arthur glanced to the side, trying to remember every odd thing he had heard and noticed. "Well, for one, I don't know why we went out after a creature near the Forest of Ascetir, only to wind up in Staunton's land near Mercia. Assuming we even had a good reason to be that far out, why would we have camped near a bloody gaia berry bush? Of all things, gaia berries, Gwen! And where on Earth did Sir Frederick go?"

"Sir Frederick?" Gwen repeated, eyebrow hitched in interest.

"Yes, why?" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's just...I don't think he and Merlin exactly...got along," Gwen said, unwilling to meet his gaze as he looked up.

Arthur stopped dead. "You don't mean to imply _he_ had anything to do with it?"

"Well," Gwen began, drawing the word out. "He hasn't returned, and we all knew the two were not on the most friendly of terms...And the knights swore the three of you had to be together when they returned to regroup for the search parties."

"'The most friendly of terms'?" Arthur repeated slowly. Perhaps she knew why he and Merlin always seemed to be exchanging distrustful looks.

"Look, all I know is he was talking—and I don't mean just _talking,_ but they were arguing about something in the armory before you left. Something crashed apparently. I don't particularly know the details, one of the squires ran and told me about it, and when I asked Merlin about it, he said it was nothing, but for one of the boys to come _tell_ me about it, I know that just _couldn't_ have been _nothing._ " Gwen took a deep breath, realizing she had been babbling again. "Just, you have to consider that it could have been someone _else,_ bandits or..." she trailed off, implication thick in the air.

Arthur just shook his head, eyes darting to the ridiculous pile still on his floor. The idea was absurd, that a _knight_ —his knight—could have found himself bothered enough by a servant to do such a thing. Then again, the whole thought of _him_ killing Merlin was not far behind.

"I don't mean to accuse him, Arthur, but do _you_ think _you_ could have possibly _hurt_ Merlin?" Gwen pressed on.

"Even if he committed treason"—Arthur's thoughts lingered on yet another absurd notion as Gwen held her breath—"I don't think I could." He had even thought about it, what he would do if his father had sentenced Merlin to death for confessing to sorcery all those years ago. He _knew_ he would smuggle the idiot out, just like they had with the druid boy.

"Even if Sir Frederick had nothing to do with it, it could have been anyone else," she explained, "But no one has found anything of his. We were expecting him to have come back with you, but he is just missing. Arthur, they searched for _days_ after that storm. They would have surely found _something,_ but he vanished completely."

Though it was suspicious, Arthur was still unwilling to concede to such a notion; Merlin's death was still on his hands. "But it was _my_ sword," he objected, gesturing to Excalibur, sitting on the table.

Gwen frowned, brow furrowing as she asked, "Arthur, if you don't remember _how_ Merlin died, how do you _know_ it was your sword?"

"Lord Staunton and his hunting party all verified the story," Arthur explained. "When they found me, they said I was saying something about how 'he' had betrayed me."

Gwen's eyes popped. "And you have been assuming this entire time it was _Merlin_ you were talking about," she said, finally understanding. "Arthur, unless one of you were possessed by _something_ "—she waved vaguely, indicating any wild array of magical or chemical causes—"I don't think either one of you would do such a thing to one another."

"But the camp was only made for two," Arthur objected, voice wavering as he realized that was a terrible excuse. "Then again, he could have just packed up and left us both for dead."

"It makes sense," Gwen said, "I mean, I would still talk to Gaius about it, get yourself checked over, but I just can't believe that either of you would harm one another." She shook her head, "I just won't."

Arthur just nodded, trying to comprehend the possibilities. Though by no means did he want to possibly accuse one of his knights—new as he was—of killing his servant and attempted regicide, he could not possibly ignore how everything seemed to line up. "I still should have protected him," Arthur concluded, exhausted by the thought. There was nothing he could do now, but there _had_ to have been something he could have done then.

"No man is perfect, Arthur," Gwen said with a sad smile as she brushed a hand against his cheek. "Now come on, why don't we get you to bed?"

Arthur agreed, letting himself be led to the bed, where Gwen pushed him to sit on the edge. She muttered something about finding him some bedclothes as he sat there in contemplation, trying to compile a list of people to find, of people to ask. He _needed_ a reason; he needed someone to blame, though regardless of the result, he was not sure if he could live with it alone.

When Gwen returned with his softest bedclothes, she set them beside him and left with the promise of asking a servant to bring up a tub for later. Arthur, for his part, obediently dressed, going through the motions as he kicked off his boots and halfheartedly pulled at the bindings of his clothing. He ran his hand across his topmost blanket, feeling the uneven edge before he laid down and pulled the covers up to his neck. Today would be the last day he would ever lay in a bed made by Merlin, and tomorrow would be the first morning he would wake up without his servant's stupid face saying something stupid as he opened his blasted curtains. Never in his life did he ever think he would miss being called a "lazy daisy".

Sinking deeper into the bed, Arthur settled into the comfortable warmth and let himself drift off entirely, mind too tired to make further conjecture. By the time Gwen had returned, the king was fast asleep.

* * *

True to her word, Gwen had ensured the tub brought up to Arthur's chambers. He had not been awake to hear the commotion of two servants dropping it in the other room, so Gwen decided to postpone the task until tomorrow, leaving instead a couple of buckets of now-cold water, some soap, and a couple towels near a basin in case he wanted to do some washing up later in the evening. She had even returned the food she had originally brought to the kitchens, bringing back a fresher selection of fruit, bread, and dried meat, which she left on his small breakfasting table. A new pitcher of water as well as a clean goblet had even appeared on his bedside table, which Arthur was eternally thankful for when he woke up not three hours later, unable to sleep any longer.

Arthur had stayed in bed, eyes blankly set on the objects in his room, not particularly inclined to get up. Though he was too tired to dream, he was too wired to keep sleeping. After a while, the king had arisen, downed a cup of water, and looked to the floor, only to see his clothing had been taken to what he could assume to be the laundry. The fire still burned low, wood crackling with the last bits of warmth it could muster. He would have to add a log or two more if he wanted his chambers to be warm throughout the night.

As he got up to stoke the fire, he noticed a small vial next to the pitcher on his nightstand, a note beneath it reading 'for the scar' in Gaius's familiar scrawl. He set the vial back down, unsure if he even wanted the scar to heal completely. Chances were, its angry visibility would lessen as time passed, but that prospect seemed too far ahead to even comprehend.

After poking at the fire and lighting a few candles, Arthur sat in his windowsill, face pressed against the cold glass to combat the headache he was developing. The sun sank low in the sky, and he watched as the guards lit torch after torch to keep the citadel safe in the growing darkness. A majority of Camelot's citizens had returned to their homes, likely to prepare and eat dinner with their families. By large, nothing had changed.

There he sat for what felt like an eternity, watching the guards' torches methodically complete their rounds, only getting up to snag an apple to appease his aching stomach. Between crunches, he swore he heard his door open, creaking quietly on its under-oiled hinges. He froze and listened, hearing the door close. Though it was likely any servant entering his chambers would be quiet, thinking he were still asleep, the uneven footfalls unnerved him.

As he heard something fall, Arthur was on his feet, discarding his apple in favor of the dagger he had left abandoned next to Excalibur. He could hear ragged breathing from the other dark room, which was only softly illuminated by its flickering neighbor. "Show yourself!" he commanded as he caught sight of a figure, which sat in the center of the room.

The figure looked up, eyes shining with fright, and Arthur froze, recognizing those eyes even in the low light behind a mask of filth. As he heard his name, saw a hand stretch to reach him, Arthur took a step back, dropping his dagger as he stared slack-jawed at figure. Merlin.

He shook as a hand flew to his mouth. Before he even realized what he was doing, the king dropped to the floor next to his hyperventilating manservant. As he went to rub circles in the younger man's back, Arthur felt a dampness seeping through the thin cloak. Merlin's back was bleeding. Biting his cheek, the king abandoned that effort for later and instead spoke in soft tones as he pulled the boy a bit more upright.

Arthur continued his litany of encouragements and assurances for several minutes until Merlin's breathing slowed into a reasonable rhythm, at which point the king changed topics entirely, telling Merlin that one of the castle cats—Count Flufferton, whom Merlin had named before he knew the cat's sex—had six adorable kittens that were probably mischievous like their progenitor.

As Merlin shook out the remainder of his adrenaline, fingers twitching and clasping at Arthur's clothing, he chuckled, a couple of stressed tears slipping down his face as the aftershocks wore off. Though he too was fighting back tears, Arthur detailed weeks-old castle gossip that he pretended to have previously ignored and smiled as Merlin contributed where he could.

Once he was sure Merlin could withstand a move, Arthur suggested it, and the sorcerer responded with an assenting nod. Carefully, the king stood, pulling his manservant up with him, and guided him towards the table where he took his breakfast and sat him down.

Now in the light, Arthur could clearly see some of the injuries marring Merlin's body. He first noticed a large bruise, which extended from one of the boy's sunken cheeks up into his hairline, where it ended in angry, jagged gash that was mostly clotted over with exception of a few places spotting with new blood. The bruise was relatively old, likely doled upon Arthur's supposed poisoning, and was a myriad of colors, yellowing around the edges, but barely greening where his cheekbone and frontal bone had likely collided with something. A single line of blood, which ended at the matted pool of Merlin's brow, pulled Arthur's attention back to Merlin's eyes, which were begging with him to fix something, anything.

The king, whose own shock-induced adrenaline was beginning to settle, nearly slumped all of his weight onto the arm of Merlin's chair. "Merlin," he began as evenly as he could to guise his worried thickness, "I'm going to take your cloak off, alright?" The weathered man nodded, and Arthur began to remove it as he continued, "I'm going to send for Gaius, and he'll fix you right up, okay?"

"No!" Merlin cried, eyes widening, startled by his own outburst. He shook his head and lamented its heaviness as he tried to dispel the fog. Arthur, for his part, froze, his hands still at the cloak's ties, and stared, waiting for his friend to continue. "No," Merlin repeated, softer this time, "No, someone—someone _came,_ right? People came back with you."

"Yes, Lord Staunton, a few of his vassals, and the healer," Arthur confirmed as he started to put together the pieces, his hands falling dead weight to his sides. "You—did they?" the king began, almost unable to finish the statement as thickness crept into his tone. As he was taking a deep breath to regain his composure, Merlin nodded again.

As Arthur was left stupefied, Merlin took the chance to explain, "It was a trap, Arthur...Staunton, he wants the throne. He just—he just doesn't have the force to take it outright. So he did this"—Merlin gestured between them—"instead. He figured that he could poison you, confuse you just enough, to convince you of some story." Merlin closed his eyes and shook his head, muscles tightening as he geared himself for the next part. "Th-they f-f-figured they could take you h-home," he explained and took a look around, gripping his thigh tightly as he reconfirmed his surroundings. "And when you came for breakfast"—his voice cracked—"They'd kill you."

Still trying to process the information fully, Arthur licked his lips and asked, "So they wanted into the citadel, but amiably? To betray us?"

Merlin nodded again, copying his king's nervous gesture. "That's not just it. Th-they w-wa-wanted in-in-formation," Merlin said, fingers kneading each other.

Concerned that details of his obvious abuse were straining his friend, Arthur finished, "So they decided to get it from you."

The sorcerer's lips thinned as he steadied himself. "Yes, and what's worse?" Merlin's face contorted in remorse. "I gave it to them."

 **End of Chapter 6**

* * *

 **A/n:** That's it for today, folks! I would like to thank all of you who decided to keep reading despite the obnoxious wait, and I would like to thank any new readers I obtained who reached this far! Next chapter will feature the last part of this reunion and how Arthur conceals Merlin while preparing for battle and betrayal. Please keep reviewing and favoriting to encourage swiftness!

Thanks guys!

~gecko


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